The Severed Branch
by Aleucard11
Summary: Have you ever wondered what happened to the sons of the second sons of previous Stark patriarchs? What if one of their descendants were still alive? The world of Westeros will be changed with a single divergence. Alternate Universe as story progresses. OC. R L J.
1. Kin of my Kin

CREGAN I

As yet another bleak white sun rose above the horizon, surrounded by dark clouds, rain poured over the lands.

It was a six day ride from the marshes near Greywater Watch to Moat Cailin. Of course, Cregan didn't stop at the ancestral seat of House Reed; there was no guarantee that the real lizard-lions wouldn't get him first.

There was no water around. The water from the rain was not sufficient, and it tasted of ash, remnants of the billows of black smoke resulting from a ferocious group of bandits torching a nearby settlement. With Lord Rickard burnt to the death by the Mad King, his son Lord Brandon strangled trying to save his father, and Lord Eddard off to march to war, there was nobody left at Winterfell to ensure proper law enforcement; even the mountain clans grew bolder, cutting it close to hunting in the lords' territories. The King's Road were ripe for the taking to rapers and bandits.

Any water that existed in the marshes existed as mud. Perhaps he would be lucky to find a new, clean puddle of water that didn't choke a man on its black, aqueous fumes, but he had no such luck.

Jeyne, his wetnurse, had succumbed to the elements on their journey. _And now,_ he thought miserably, yet at the same time solemnly, _I must give her a proper burial. It's the least I could do for her, for what she's done for my sons._

Artos, a babe of not even a moon's age, was sleeping deeply on his back, wrapped with a cloth hastily put together by an inexperienced father. Even though he desired nothing else but a cup of water, or even, Gods forbid, a tankard of ale, he continued to dig. And so he dug, dug he did, until midday arrived. He finally dug a sizeable enough hole for Jeyne. Lugging the body into the grave, he marked the grave with a piece of waterlogged, rotted bark from one of the few trees at the neck.

Times were so desperate, he even considered the cold, soggy flesh on Jeyne's skinny body, but he could not. If he was anything aside from a reserved, and some may say craven man, he was a Stark. He would not resort to cannibalism, even to survive the destitute land.

He would grieve if he had any tears left to spare. His sweet wife, Jorelle, dead at the hands of bandits; if only he had learnt to fight, just like his father, the adventurous and brave Torrhen, who exiled himself to Essos in search for adventure… but no, he was too craven. And so the Gods punished him.

What kind of husband was he, when he couldn't even protect his wife?

Artos had a twin, a twin boy, but he was born right as the bandit invaded their home; a modest settlement by a lord's standards, but still, a massive abode for second, even third sons who made it on their own. The boy had died along with his mother, but while they could not bring along Jorelle's dead corpse, Jeyne insisted on giving the young could-have-been lordling a proper burial.

It was fate that he would be returning the favour now.

When he finished shoveling the soggy dirt on Jeyne's long since cool body, he decided to recite a prayer for her; one for the old gods, one for the new, and two more for his deceased wife.

Finally, he ended his prayers with sincere words.

"You did more for my sons and their mother, more than I ever could," he said, shaking. He did not know if it was from the cold, or something else. "May the Gods guide you in the afterlife. Old Gods, New Gods, the Red God, the Drowned God, it doesn't matter. I hope you find peace, Jeyne."

When he finished, he stood up slowly. He was weak; starving, and dying of thirst. His child was skinnier than most, on his way, most likely.

 _You are a lion and a wolf,_ he thought fiercely. _Please stay alive… You must stay alive._

Jorelle was a Lannister, the descendant of one of Lord Damon Lannister's nephews. Of course, the relation was so distant, the only thing Jorelle shared with the main branch of lions was a name and shining emerald eyes. Her hair wasn't remotely yellow, being the prettiest light brown he'd seen.

She ran off with him, after the mention of a betrothal to some old lowly cunt off in the Westerlands. The two married in the sight of the Old Gods and the new, with septons from the Crownlands to witness their union. It was a small ceremony, but Cregan was happy. His father died disappointed in his only son's lack of a sense of adventure, and his mother had died birthing him. He'd been happy for the first time since his father had died.

Alas, Valar Morghulis. It was a motto he'd heard from a Braavosi traveler, and the words always chilled him to the bone; yet, it seemed remarkably similar to the words of House Stark; Winter is Coming. Foreboding radiated off the words.

All men must die.

Cregan trudged through the marshlands, all the while searching for anything, anything at all that he could give to his son and keep him alive. He had no hope for himself, but surely, someone must take pity on his babe.

A mob of men appeared on the horizon, and he paled; they flew no banners, so they were no proper lords who might offer him food and shelter. No. They were bandits.

Hatred gripped his heart and he felt fire run through his veins, but he had near no strength left; all that was left was a heavy stone that ripped through his heart and dropped to the bottom of his stomach. Fear.

"Hand o'er yer coin, and we might not tear ya to pieces, boy." The leader was a somewhat tanned man with a shaved head. He had a few gaping holes in between his yellow, snarling teeth, and Cregan could not help but notice his horrendous bad breath.

 _I have no worldly possessions,_ he thought resentfully. _If I had any, I would've bought a horse and I wouldn't even be here in this shithole._

He had some coin, but with the war, that coin was nowhere near enough to buy a horse with the super-inflated prices.

Aside from the few gold dragons he had managed to scavenge from the burnt ruins of his house, he only had Artos, and his Valyrian steel sword, a sword his father Torrhen had taken from one of the abandoned, yet not smoking ruins of Valyria. Although his swordsmanship was somewhat lacking, his father, God bless his soul, never gave up on teaching him. He still had some remnants of a rusty style he was taught an age ago.

He unsheathed his sword, refusing to grace the bandit with an answer. His actions spoke volumes already.

The bandit leader laughed. "Are ye sure? Yer outnumbered ten to one, _boy_."

"This _boy_ has nothing left to lose, you piece of shit!" Cregan charged. The existence of his son, the feeling of his weight on Cregan's back had changed the man drastically; if he were alone, he knew he would surrender the sword and all his coin without protest, but those were key to not only his own survival, but his son's. So, he charged.

Unable to block a few slashes headed his way, he managed to shield his son from a fatal blow. However, when he fell on his arse, waiting for them to kill him and loot his bleeding corpse, a roar sounded behind him, not unlike that of thirty charging knights.

"RAAAAAARRRRGGH!" Under other circumstances, Cregan would've made a face and laughed at the ridiculous war cry, but he didn't complain. He was already dizzy from blood loss, and he knew, somehow, that he may not be here for much longer.

The army crushed the bandits easily and soundly. When he glimpsed a glimpse of the banners of House Stark, he was relieved. He unwrapped Artos from his back as a face similar to his own approached.

Grey eyes of a Stark. His son was safe.

"Please," he rasped, voice hoarse, not only from his screaming, but from days of living with no water. "My lord, have mercy. My name… Cregan Stark, son of Torrhen, grandson of Artos the Implacable…"

The young lord's eyes widened. "Father lost contact with you immediately before the war. What happened?"

"Married… Jorelle Lannister. My sons, Artos and his twin. Twin died… bandits…" his vision pulsed, and was slowly losing colour. "Artos alive… My sword, Valyrian steel, give… when he's of age…"

Lord Eddard Stark was stunned. He had a child already in his entourage, despite the fact that this 'entourage' consisted of only himself and seven other fiercely loyal crannogmen left after the battle; another one wouldn't be an issue, as Wylla could handle two babes, but the sword was something he didn't expect.

"My sword… Father found Wintersbane in Valyria… Promise me! Promise me it'll be Artos' one day…"

Eddard had made enough promises for a lifetime, but he promised. No maester could save Cregan from his wounds, but he died happily in his cousin's care, leaving an infant Artos with the new wolf lord.

It sparked an idea in Eddard's head that would affect the fate of Westeros.


	2. The Return

EDDARD I

After checking some records of a Sept from a small settlement near the Crownlands, Ned confirmed that this Cregan Stark indeed existed; scavenged documents found in the ruins of the man's home also confirmed the identity of his father Torrhen Stark, a cousin of Eddard's, who spent his life wandering Essos, eventually marrying the youngest daughter of a Lyseni nobleman.

Torrhen died a few years past, after his self-imposed exile to Essos. He was the younger brother of Jon Stark, a well accomplished Stark. Torrhen felt inadequate next to his elder brother, and hence sought to find adventure to find confidence in himself. Jon, Torrhen and their eldest sister Lyanna were children of Benjen, the younger twin son of Artos.

The men he was with were Howland Reed's men, crannogmen who cared none for the intrigue and power plays of others. They agreed to keep the secret that he changed immediately after Cregan's death. He still remembered the day he stepped foot into Winterfell for the first time in a long time.

 _Forgive me, cousin,_ he thought grimly. _I owe you a favour in death if this plan works…_

He knew that his lady wife would not, could not bear the sight of a bastard. Artos Stark's line was known for twins, and it would not be a stretch to say that Jon looked quite similar to the infant Artos. Jon's name was also inconspicuous, as Cregan's uncle, elder brother of Torrhen was also named Jon after an Umber somewhere along the line. The real twin of Artos was burnt to ashes in the pillaging of his home, so there was no proof—any bandits who could prove otherwise were now likely executed by his own order.

Jon would be a trueborn Stark, the younger twin of Cregan's son Artos. Both would be raised in Winterfell, and even though Ned hated to resort to low cunning, he had to admit it was a near foolproof plan.

In honour of the resilient man, Ned had Cregan's body carried to Winterfell for a burial. Not only did it solidify the fact that Jon and Artos were trueborn, but it was also Ned's personal thanks for the favour done for him, unbeknownst to Cregan himself.

The evening they arrived back at Winterfell, Ned gazed upon the stone walls morosely. He wished his father, Brandon, and Lyanna were here. Even Benjen was leaving for the Night's Watch, and he couldn't help but feel alone.

When he saw his wife for the first time since the war began, his gaze had lingered on the babe she carried. It had auburn hair, and blue eyes, just like its mother.

"This is your son, my lord," she said formally.

Ned named his firstborn son Robb, after his friend, Robert Baratheon. Although Ned kept Jon's true birth parents a secret from everyone, including the King, and had some disagreements with him about the atrocities the old lion committed in King's Landing, they were still friends. At least, Ned hoped so.

Ned brought Jon and Artos before her, and watched her Tully blue eyes go cold.

"Is that how you treat me, after you took my maidenhead and I bore your son?" she spat.

Ned inwardly cringed. "Please, my lady—"

His words did not placate her. "Get those bastards away from me! How could you do this—"

"They aren't bastards!" he had interrupted her tirade, finally losing his patience. An awkward silence lingered for a while, before he continued to speak. "I am sorry, my lady. But I must beseech you to listen to me."

He had quickly and briefly explained the situation to Catelyn. Although he felt immensely guilty for deceiving her about Jon, it was technically true that Jon was no bastard of his'; nor was he a bastard at all, from what Lyanna told him. Targaryens were notorious for ignoring most socially acceptable marriage customs.

His wife's face immediately adopted a guilty look for assuming his infidelity. "I apologise, my lord. I am weary from travel and childbirth."

He gave a reassuring, relieved smile. "It is quite alright." He handed over the babes to a new wetnurse. "I promised cousin Cregan that I would take care of them. I intend to honour his last wishes."

"I would expect nothing less," the lady said, but Ned had a feeling her words were just a formality. "Who was their mother?"

Ned's expression grew troubled. "Their mother was a distant cousin of Lord Tywin, a girl called Jorelle Lannister. I have confirmed the legitimacy of this claim; there were several septons witnessing their union."

With what the Lannisters had done and Ned's outspoken protest against it, the two great houses were at odds with each other. The twins could either ease this tension, or increase the animosity between them.

"I think we should inform Lord Tywin of this, my lord," Catelyn said carefully. "No doubt it is a risk, but better to risk relations than to ensure that the Lannisters and the Starks are at each other's throats. Lord Tywin would be furious if he finds out you were hiding them from him."

Ned found himself agreeing. Although he, for a lack of a better word, despised the old lion, he admittedly had power. It would not do for the realm to have another conflict between two great houses.

"I'll ask our maester to send a raven," Ned promised. Still, the stony expression on Catelyn's face remained, and Ned wondered if he had truly convinced her.

 _But for now, the pack must heal…_

* * *

 **Woah. Seriously, I didn't expect responses in such a short time; my previous fanfictions got like five reviews in four months. Guess the Naruto fandom really is dead.**

 **As a response to the reviews, thank you! I'll take your advice into account (obviously, my knowledge of the series is somewhat rusty now, as I most recently watched the TV series. If the existence of some characters are suddenly nerfed by mistake, I apologise). However, I do feel the need to explain some things.**

 **Obviously, Benjen is a Stark in Winterfell, but he's a kid right now (or at least inexperienced. Third sons aren't usually educated to rule). Rickard, Brandon, and maybe Ned could keep their lands in order, but the bandits would have heard about how they are all dead or at war, with only a likely 14 year old barely grown kid left at Winterfell. Who wouldn't take that rare chance?**

 **Also, when I first thought of the concept of this story, I didn't exactly plan for Jon Snow to be masqueraded as a trueborn. I simply thought about an Alternate Universe where there was one more Stark in play, but then when I searched up the Stark lineage, Benjen and Brandon Stark (sons of Artos, not Ned's brothers) were twins. As you may or may not know, the twin trait runs in families... and here we are.**

 **And about Catelyn being illogical about the situation, I find that an interesting idea that I want to delve into. Catelyn and Ned's marriage wasn't exactly perfect, and I wouldn't want it any other way. (And the dead relative thing is easily proven... there's a corpse, you know). Ned (not really Ned specifically, but the Starks) have a reputation for some degree of honour. This is exactly why some lords used Jon as the weakness in his honour, 'proof' that Ned's honour wasn't infallible; without him, there's virtually nothing that alludes to Ned being a womanizer. And with Ned speaking in half-truths (as you'd have seen in this chapter), there are few reasons for Catelyn to suspect anything (although I'll write that in anyway, because it makes for good character development).**

 **Remember, _THIS IS IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. I MADE IT CLEAR THAT THE MAIN BRANCH OF STARKS HAVE HAD PREVIOUS CONTACT WITH TORRHEN IN THE PAST. TORRHEN LEFT OF HIS OWN WILL, BUT HE DOES STILL SEND RAVENS. THIS IS NOT THE SITUATION WHERE NOBODY HAS EVER HEARD OF THEM BEFORE. THEY MAY BE ESTRANGED, BUT THE MAIN BRANCH DOES KNOW THAT TORRHEN'S DESCENDANTS EXIST SOMEWHERE._**

 **The Valyrian steel sword thing might be a bit much, but if you think about it, in the books Victarion Greyjoy sails to somewhere near Valyria as well, and Euron Greyjoy claims to have been there and looted a dragonhorn. It's not a stretch that Torrhen, in his entire life exploring, has found some items of worth. Of course, it's not going to be from some kind of noble lord's strangely intact house, but from a battlefield on the borders. Gas masks weren't invented yet, so delving deep into Valyrian land is probably fatal.  
**

 **By the way, Ned stopped at Greywater Watch before heading back to Winterfell. With the realm still being in a state of chaos, it's better to travel with more men.**

 **As for why I chose for Jorelle to be a Lannister, it's mostly because I like angst and conflict. People are going to start hating Artos and Jon, calling them names and or being violent because of the Stark-Lannister conflict (This is not exactly a fix-it fic. Starks may or may not die, I am not guaranteeing anything). Yay. Angst.**

 **Anyway, thank you very much for taking the time to review.**

 **\- Aleucard**


	3. By the Old Gods and the New

**I've decided to respond to reviews in PM instead of publicly addressing it in a chapter. Sorry for the extremely short chapter, but I'm preparing a trip to England, as I've been invited to a tour of the university I'm applying to; I'm still planning the plot of this story.**

 **Oh, and I forgot the disclaimer. I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, and I do not own Game of Thrones. Thank you for reading!**

* * *

CATELYN I

It had been seven days since Catelyn's lord husband returned home from the rebellion.

For seven days, she prayed at the sept that Lord Stark had built for her. The winter had ended, but Winterfell was as cold as ever, and snowing had never truly ceased. The only place where she found inner warmth was the sept. She seldom ate, and spent the days sitting on the cold stone bench inside the small sept, quietly praying to the Seven and reflecting on her conflicting thoughts.

 _Could the twins truly be of a union between a Stark and a Lannister?_ She had mused. It seemed odd. Starks and Lannisters rarely got along.

As a few rare beams of sunlight from a grey and white northern sun flitted through the stained glass window of a seven pointed star, reflected reds and oranges and greens shone on her grey fur cloak. A set of frantic footsteps sounded outside the sept, and she heard the large oaken double doors open. The footsteps sounded all the more closer, until she heard a worried voice.

"Milady, you must eat… Master Robb needs you!" one of the servants had come to the sept, pleading for her to eat something. She refused. When that failed, they reported to Lord Stark.

Her lord husband made haste to the sept, and approached her tentatively. "The servants told me you weren't eating properly, my lady. Is something wrong? Have I wronged you in any way?"

Artos had green eyes of a Lannister, but Jon looked nothing like him. Jon had dark brown hair and Stark grey eyes. His mother had clearly left little of herself in the younger twin. There was, of course, a man given the honour of being buried in the ancient crypt of past winter kings and Lords of Winterfell, but Catelyn still had doubts.

How did she know if her husband had not just fathered two bastards on a woman from the Westerlands and claimed them to be trueborn? Would they usurp the Lordship of Winterfell from Robb? Questions swam around her head like a storm of shadows in the dark.

"I'm here, so the Gods can see," she answered the unasked question. "Please, my lord. I need to know this. What are you hiding from me?"

Lord Stark's eyes widened. "My lady, I—"

"I don't need to know the whole truth," she pleaded. "I just need to know. Are Artos and Jon your bastards? Can you swear by the Gods by what you tell me?"

He met her teary gaze and held a solemn expression. He knelt down next to her, and took her dainty hands into his own calloused ones, rough with war and conflict. She saw the seriousness in his Stark grey eyes. "I swear, my lady. I swear by the Old Gods and the New that Artos and Jon are not my bastards. I swear that they are trueborn."

There was no lie in his eyes, nor his words. Catelyn believed him, but she knew, deep inside, there was something her lord husband hid from her; most ladies were trained in the art of reading expressions, and she was no exception. For now, however, she was content to follow her husband to the Great Hall to sup, content to be ignorant of the secrets the wolf lord guarded so closely.

If he ever told her his secrets, she would be the judge of whether it was the truth or not.


	4. Boyhood

EDDARD II

Lady Stark's lack of trust in his word disturbed him deeply, but Ned's sincere words had served to bring husband and wife closer than most political marriages would allow.

Eight years ago, he never would have imagined he could grow to love his wife when many other lords did not. He had four children; Robb, Sansa, Arya and Bran. Bran was the youngest, only one nameday old.

Artos, in his short time with his father, had went through harsh conditions with little food and water, leaving him weak, feeble, and small. Besides that, Jon was older by a few weeks, and with babes, weeks made a huge difference. At the time, Jon dwarfed his supposed brother. Ned had to hide a sigh of relief that by the time they had reached Winterfell, Artos had nearly caught up to Jon in size. Although not always the case, many people still had the misconception that younger twins would always be smaller, so he was glad that even as they grew up, Artos was always taller than Jon, leaving little room for suspicion—He was afraid that people would start to question things if the elder twin was smaller, but things did not happen that way.

It was the height of summer. Artos and Jon were eight namedays old, and although Robb would stay in Winterfell, as most heirs did, Ned struggled to decide where he would foster Artos and Jon. Although it was the height of summer, it only meant that summer snows were gone for a short time; the air was still crisp and cold, but nowhere near as cold as winter.

Ned watched from above as Robb, Artos and Jon practiced their archery with his ward, Theon Greyjoy. Two years past, the Greyjoys rebelled; Ned went with his friend and King Robert to war, crushing their rebellion after they had successfully raided Lannisport. He observed the Greyjoy boy raise his bow, nocked an arrow, drew, and let loose the bowstring. Unlike the three Stark boys, his arrow hit bullseye, and embedded itself deep into the mark. Ned smiled as Robb began to pester Theon about how he could shoot an arrow that accurately.

Footsteps sounded behind him, but he did not turn to look at who it was. He already knew by the slow, steady steps that it was Maester Luwin. "Lord Stark, a raven from Lord Yohn Royce has arrived." The maester handed him a small scroll.

He unfurled the scroll and scanned the words across the paper. After he finished, he rolled it back up and gave it back to the maester.

"Please send for Artos and Jon and tell them to go to my solar," Ned said. "I'd like a word with them about their fostering."

"Of course, my lord," Maester Luwin said. "I will let them know immediately." He left.

Ned walked to his solar, and sat in his chair, waiting. Not long after, the two boys entered his solar, and Artos closed the door behind them. Ned gestured for them to sit down. Jon had a small grin on his face, whilst Artos was as stone-faced as ever.

"First of all, happy eighth nameday to both of you. Lord Yohn Royce has responded to my raven, and he brings good news." Ned gave a smile. "You will be fostering with the Royces at Runestone, and if they are agreeable to the arrangement, you may squire for Lord Yohn's two sons when you are older."

Although Jon was wary of the Southron tales about knights and fairytales, deep inside, every boy wanted to be a knight. It was just that Artos was more vocal about his dream. In an instant, the boy's stony face melted away to some form of warmth, and Ned felt happy that he could turn Artos' near constant frown into a smile.

"I'll miss Winterfell," Jon said sadly.

"I know you will." Ned had gone through fostering himself, although, he never squired or became a knight, as he held to the Old Gods. Artos and Jon would have the chance; as they were half Lannister, the Lord Tywin insisted that they were accepted in the light of the Seven as followers of the Faith, even if they held to the Old Gods in the future.

They held both in the same esteem, and Ned was only glad that it didn't lead to another argument about the twins' living arrangements with the old lion of Lannister. He had had enough of those in the past eight years, and had to exchange ravens furiously, back and forth, with the lord of the rock. It was a highly unpleasant duty for anyone who knew Tywin Lannister in person.

For now, though, Ned was content to shove aside his conflict with the Warden of the West and help the twins prepare for their journey to Runestone, ancient seat of House Royce. It would be a long journey by sea; they would ride to and depart from the White Harbour to sail to Gulltown, where they would ride to their final destination.

* * *

 **My trip to England concludes, and boy, am I glad to be home. I would've posted this chapter earlier if it weren't for the bloody spider that had to greet me just as I was about to go to bed. I killed it, but it disturbed me so much that it made me unable to sleep until 4AM. Then, I slept until 6PM. Yeah. Fuck that spider. I checked everywhere for a nest and there wasn't one, but I'm still paranoid as fuck right now. (Should I burn my house down? Review now).**

 **Please review, it would distract my paranoid self. If you have any questions, please leave those in your review as well (If you so desire).**

 **\- Aleucard**


	5. The Old Lion

TYWIN I

Anger simmered beneath the cold exterior of Lord Tywin Lannister. His plans had been foiled by Eddard Stark once again.

The sea adjacent to Casterly Rock brought winds smelling of salt. The winds were usually cold during winter or autumn, but in the height of summer, it was damp, irritating and uncomfortable. It served to fuel his rage.

When he received a raven of two children borne of a Stark and a Lannister, he was surprised. Wolves and lions did not mingle very often, and the last record of such a union was probably centuries past, before Aegon the Conqueror took Westeros.

It was a shame both children were boys; perhaps he would've attempted to wed them to his dwarf son, but looking back, even if one of the twins were born female, Eddard Stark would not have accepted.

It was now more important than ever for Tywin to find a suitable bride for his wayward, monstrous son, who had married a whore three years past; he had made sure he wouldn't do it again, though. Even though he was old, he was still a lion.

To mend the gap between the two great houses, Tywin had planned to make one or both of the twins pages and then squires at Casterly Rock, but the Lord of Winterfell took the initiative to ship the boys off to Runestone, some far off place in the Vale. When he received news of it, he exploded.

"Boy!" he hollered. "Get me an Arbor Gold! NOW! And get my brother Kevan!"

The servant boy had scampered off, terrified. He rubbed his temples. One problem came after another, and it was difficult to solve the issues when he was on the verge of strangling someone—he needed Kevan.

As the servants brought in two goblets and a bottle of wine, he angrily poured the vintage into one of the golden goblets, spilling a little on his desk. He cursed. One had rubies embedded into the side, with engravings of lions, and the other had no jewels, but elaborate knot patterns carved into the gold. He took the one with lions, and began downing the wine with no hesitation.

He let out an animalistic growl before he breathed in to calm himself. After the fourth breath, Kevan knocked and came in. Furrowed eyebrows showed his concern.

"What happened, Tywin?" he asked, sitting down. He eyed the bottle of wine. "You don't drink unless there's something really wrong."

Tywin's face twitched into a snarl, but he poured his brother a goblet of wine. "Drink," he ordered. Kevan raised a brow, but drank from his cup nonetheless.

"The Stark fool has sent the twin boys to Runestone," the old lion spat. "My plans for them are ruined! Only the Seven knows how long they'll stay there; they could be there from eight to eight and ten for all I know. They'll brainwash them with their ridiculous notions of honour—"

Kevan was the only person in the known world where Tywin could be less than his calculating, cool and controlled self. Joanna was the other one, but Joanna was dead.

Kevan listened attentively, and as always, he provided a solution. Kevan never wasted any time complaining, only advised. "Mayhaps you could host a tourney and a squire's tourney in a few years and invite them," he suggested.

The rational suggestion calmed Tywin, and he was no longer smouldering with anger, nor red faced with emotion. "That's a decent idea," he grudgingly admitted. "What else do you suggest?"

Tywin listened to his brother's counsel until the sun had set and the day had turned black. Tywin would not give up so easily on a possible way to mend relations with the Starks—as much as Tywin thought them honourable fools, he was not stupid enough to be blind to the fact that the Starks were one of the most powerful families in Westeros, and had been for many millennia.

* * *

 **Alright people; sorry for the short chapter today. The next chapter is going to be a long chapter. It'll be after a time skip, and probably the first chapter in Jon or Artos' point of view about the events that occur during their time as squires. This may cause quite a few ripples, and from now on, it will probably grow more and more AU as time passes.**

 **Thank you for reading, and sorry for the late update. I've been revising for my final exams, and it's been rather stressful.**

 **Reviews give me life. Please R &R.**

 **-Aleucard**


	6. The Tourney of Lannisport

_Nearing the end of 296 AC_

ARTOS I

After an exhausting twenty days of riding, they had reached Lannisport.

The Lannisters were hosting a massive tourney at Lannisport, including an archery competition, a melee and a jousting tournament, all three categories split into knights only, squires only and those who did not have a rank. Although the North and the Dornish did not participate, most knights, their squires and simple sellswords from the Vale, the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Riverlands and the Reach travelled to the Westerlands to participate in the huge tourney.

On the way to the West, the party from Runestone met the other parties from the other various holds in the Vale. There were many other squires there with them; a few of the most notable were Mychel of the House Redfort, and Artos couldn't help but feel intimidated. It was said that he was one of the best swords in the Vale. Domeric of the House Bolton, a squire for the Redforts, was also a probable tourney champion.

Now three and ten, their mentors Ser Andar and Ser Robar allowed them to participate in their first squire's tourney. Although Artos was better at jousting, he knew that Jon was miles ahead with the sword, being leaner than his older twin, and hence faster. Perhaps Artos would join the archery competition as well.

Although he received a raven from Lord Stark, a message confessing that he did not like Tywin Lannister and was reluctant to attend the tourney, he agreed to attend for the sake of his kin. Artos had given a small smile at that, and replied to him.

 _Uncle Ned,_

 _I am glad you've decided to attend. I know it must bother you to attend events you think is a southron extravagance, and even more to be in the presence Lord Tywin, but I truly believe that this is for the greater good of the relationship between House Stark and House Lannister. I will do you and House Stark proud in the tourney, I promise._

 _Jon and I are well. Ser Andar says the journey to Lannisport will take over a fortnight. Although I like riding, the prospect of riding for near three weeks does not sound appealing._

 _I wish you a pleasant trip, and I will see you soon at Lannisport._

 _Artos Stark_

He had sent that letter ahead of time, two months before the tourney was supposed to occur.

The day Jon spotted the first banner displaying a foreign sigil, he was amazed. He had never seen so many different banners in his life; the only time that could've happened were during tourneys or wars, and he'd never been in either of those situations. There were at least a dozen banners, and he had no doubt he'd see more at the tourney itself.

However, a week before the tourney officially began, Lord Eddard and Lord Tywin had summoned the twins to the latter's solar.

"Lord Eddard, Lord Tywin." The twins greeted the patriarchs of their parents' houses.

"It's good to see you two again," Lord Eddard returned their greeting.

It was the first time Artos had ever met Tywin Lannister. He heard many stories about him—not all pleasant—and he could see why most people were terrified of him. He had green eyes, just like Artos did, but they were cold and lacked the warmth his uncle's grey eyes had. He was bald, but a whisker like beard grew at the sides of his face; he looked like the feral, wrathful lion of his sigil.

Artos gave away nothing and put a blank mask on his face, positive emotion slipping away as his gaze lingered on Lord Tywin. "Is there something you needed, my lords?"

To his surprise, it was Lord Tywin who addressed them. "As you know, the tourney officially begins in seven days, and the squire's tourney will take place immediately after a grand luncheon feast. As sons of a noble house, instead of using House Stark's official sigil of your own, it is recommended that you distinguish yourself from the common men of Lord Stark's household by designing your own sigil."

"The two of you are three and ten, nearly men grown. It is time for you to adopt a personal sigil," Lord Eddard agreed.

In the end, Artos had his shield split per pale, with a Lannister lion rampant on the right and a Stark direwolf on the left, both locked in combat. Jon's was a direwolf lying at the base of a carved weirwood tree on a white field, the tree being a suggestion of Lord Eddard's.

The Godswood was Jon's favourite place to sulk during his time at Winterfell, he had claimed. It was true, but still, the tree reminded him of a sigil he swore he'd seen before, but he could not quite remember what it was or who it belonged to.

With the designs on paper, Lord Tywin took them to the smithy, and the smith forged them each a steel shield with their sigils on them. Artos thought they simply looked brilliant. Lord Tywin's gold bought skilled craftsmen to the Rock, and it showed in the shields; the grey direwolf and the golden lion sigils were both intricately crafted into the steel, the surface of the lion being made of a gilded steel plate. The direwolf was made of polished silvery steel, making it glitter in the sun.

The direwolf on Jon's shield was a similar shiny colour, but the weirwood leaves and the tree's carved face were painted with the finest paint in the Westerlands, the shade resembling the fiery red hair of Lady Stark. Needless to say, both of them were extremely excited for the tourney.

The following morning, they broke their fast with the other squires in one of the great halls of the Lannister hold in Lannisport. They caught the eye of one squire in particular, one who wore pink and red. He was older than the twins by a few years, and was taller by half a head. He made his way towards the twins, casually drinking from a horn of ale.

"So, you're Lord Stark's cousins? My name's Domeric Bolton." The boy extended his hand, and Artos shook it.

"I'm Artos, and this is my brother Jon. It's good to see someone else from the north."

Domeric gave a smile. "I feel the same way. How's squiring in Runestone? I heard the view of the sea is quite magnificent…"

Artos once met Domeric's father, in Winterfell, when the Lord Bolton rode there. Lord Stark summoned him for some business or another that he didn't know about, but he would forever remember him. The man had cold, pale eyes, and something about the man unnerved Artos to no end. Regardless, the lord returned to the Dreadfort soon after, and his thoughts did not linger on him too much.

Domeric, however, was drastically different to his father. While his father was silent and intimidating, his son was less so. He was quiet, but not silent, and was a lot friendlier than the Lord of the Dreadfort.

He had a feeling they would become fast friends.

* * *

 **Dear Guest,**

 **Thank you for your review, but since you're anonymous, I can't PM you or anything—yeah. Genetics don't work like that. Just because you have the name Stark doesn't mean you'll look like one; examples are Robb, Sansa, Bran and Rickon. ALL FOUR have red hair and look more Tully than Stark. Regardless, Artos is a little bit of both. He has dark hair and a long face like the Starks, but green eyes like the Lannisters.**

 **Again, sorry for the previous short chapter. I hope this one was long enough to make up for it. Thank you for the reviews!**

 **-Aleucard**


	7. The Treasonous Confession

JON I

His helmet and shield beside him, Jon's eyes were glued to his brother and his horse.

Artos mounted Winter, a white stallion specially bred for tourneys. He clutched the shield adorning his personal sigil of a lion and a direwolf. A squire of a lesser house gave Artos his first lance, and he clamped the lance steadily under his arm.

Jon stroked his own horse subconsciously, a black stallion named Shadow. Artos' first tilt was against Lancel Lannister, a nephew of Lord Tywin, the King's squire. In a stroke of luck, Artos' lance pierces dead on into Lancel's shield, and knocks the older squire right off his horse. Artos does a victory lap after taking off his helmet.

Jon cheers for his brother's clean first victory. Lancel stands up after being momentarily stunned, and was immediately loudly berated by the King. The crowd laughs, but is silenced by Lord Tywin's menacing glare.

 _One win for the north,_ he thought happily.

The second match was Domeric Bolton's joust against Tion Frey, a son of Genna Lannister. Domeric's first tilt sent the Frey squire sprawling out of his seat and into the dirt. Lord Stark's party cheers for another northern victory.

Loras Tyrell jousted and won against Tion Frey's elder brother, Lyonel Frey, in two tilts. Soon, it was Jon's turn to joust.

His opponent was another Frey, and was two years older than himself. Although Olyvar was older, Jon knew he was somewhat inexperienced. He could tell by the way Olyvar fumbled to ready his lance.

Blood rushed through his ears and it seemed as if time slowed. Jon's eyes were pinned on his opponent, and he could see nothing else but the twin towers on his opponent's shield. Jon gripped his lance. The trumpets sounded, and Shadow lunged forward.

Although Jon missed his first tilt completely, Olyvar's lance glanced off of his shield. It did not hit dead centre, though, and with Jon's legs nervously clamped around Shadow's torso, he did not even wobble as they passed each other.

The second tilt saw both their lances break on impact, but both remained on their horses. Jon wobbled a little, and Olyvar leaned forward after nearly falling off his horse, but both remained.

The soles of Jon's boots dug into the stirrings as he kicked twice, now thrice for a canter and Shadow burst forth once more. He could truly understand the phenomenon older squires described as 'tunnel vision' when he smashed his lance into Olyvar's shield and sent him rocketing back. His opponent did not even have a chance to retaliate as he tumbled off his horse.

When the adrenalin finally died down, he could hear cheers around him. He glanced at Lord Stark, and it seemed the man was truly broken out of his stoicism as he openly grinned and clapped. The King was next to him, clapping him on the back in congratulations, laughing boisterously as he downed yet another horn of ale.

Jon lowered his lance and gave it to one of the squires too young to participate. Feeling slightly dizzy at his first win, he dismounted his horse and took off his helmet.

"We gave the north a good show out there, brother," Artos said as he congratulated Jon.

"Do you know who your next opponent is yet?" Jon asked as he wiped the sweat from his dark locks.

"Aye." Artos had a neutral expression upon his face. "Patrek Vance, a great grandson of Lord Walder Frey. I'd be nervous if it weren't for the fact that all of the Freys jousting out there so far has lost."

"He's a Vance, not a Frey," Jon corrected. "But aye. I suppose it has to do with the number of scions they have. It must be difficult to train half a hundred Frey boys at the same time. And the Riverlands only has that many houses for them to page or squire for."

As Artos, Domeric and himself had advanced to the next level of matches, they were free for the rest of that day. They spectated the rest of the elimination matches as the sun set on the horizon, slowly dipping into the western seas, emanating a reddish glow. Soon, they returned to their assigned great hall and began dining.

However, Domeric seemed to have something on his mind. He kept looking at Jon and his twin, and Jon had to wonder what was going on.

"If you're going to ask us something, spit it out." Jon cut off another piece of the native Westerlands steak, another extravagance Lord Tywin used to show off the wealth of the west. The flavors sang in his mouth, and perhaps the half of him that was of the west, but he would never ever admit it to any man, especially not a Northman. After all, he looked nothing like a Lannister, and he had a reputation to keep.

"Meet me at the castle library later," Domeric finally replied after a long awkward silence. "This is something no others should hear."

Jon took another bite of steak as Artos agreed to meet the Bolton heir after dinner.

 _Damn, I could eat like this for the rest of my life._

When they finished the most delicious, yet probably the most expensive meal of their entire lives, the three boys went their separate ways to the castle library. There were few light sources; only a few torches perched on the walls. It brought out the pale irises Domeric inherited from his father, and for once, Jon truly felt unsettled by his demeanor.

"You two have been good friends to me," Domeric began, speaking seriously. "Honourable, steadfast, and worthy of my trust. I would very much like if you were to help me depose of my father, Lord Roose Bolton."

If there was anything Jon expected, it certainly wasn't this. He felt himself gape at the open admission of treason.

* * *

 **Aaaaaand the plot thickens.**

 **Thank you for the reviews! The statistics of this story warms my stone cold heart. As for why the Freys, well, they have shit tons of squires, have marriage ties to the Lannisters, and are geographically rather close all things considered. I thought they'd make good cannon fodder.**

 **I rolled some of the jousts with a dice because I was bored. Yay for RNGesus.**


	8. AN: No Update

**Hello, guys.**

 **As I have finals, I am unfortunately extremely busy until the 15th of May. As such, the newest update will be delayed another week, and I apologise for any inconvenience caused.**

 **And yes, Domeric has his own reasons for his actions last chapter. I was hoping to leave you on a bit of a cliffhanger and continue soon but unfortunately the continuation won't be published this week.**

 **If you would be so kind, please also pray to whatever you hold sacred (and RNGesus) that I get good grades.**

 **Thank you for reading, and I will hopefully be back soon.**

 **-Aleucard**


	9. A Flayed Man

**I'm back.**

 **I've finished my exams. I've basically given up on Psychology because it's a little cunt and there's no cure for being a cunt, though.**

 **Also, fucking Word deleted my entire Chapter 8 because I kept having to restart to fix my god damned wifi, so this chapter is a bit late. Apologies for the tardiness.**

 **Anyways, I hope you enjoy the chapter, and as always, if you have some time to spare, please give a quick review.**

* * *

DOMERIC I

The North remembered, but he remembered even more vividly than others. He was only a boy of six when he asked his father what their sigil meant.

Domeric never expected his father to _literally_ show him.

He took Domeric to the dungeons, and at first, there was nothing there. Behind an old wooden door hidden by the shadow of a dark corner were hundreds upon thousands of human skins, collected by previous Bolton patriarchs over the centuries. If he thought the main dungeons smelled dank and mouldy, it had nothing on the stench of rotting human skins.

Regardless, it was not a crime to be in ownership of human skins. Even though it was barbaric, even the Starks accepted flaying as part of history. None should deny it, should the same mistakes happen again in the future. And so, it was perfectly legal for his father to own such… heirlooms.

Before a younger him could even register what they were, his father had led him through that part of the dungeons into a deeper level. He remembered how his blood turned icy cold when he smelled a pungent metallic odour.

Blood.

He saw live men, with parts of their body flayed, dried and crusted maroon blood covering their body. They were breathing hard, but none screamed; they had lost their voice, screaming it hoarse long before Domeric even set foot in those dungeons.

He never forgot.

At the current time, Jon had stopped gaping at him, but was unable to articulate words from the shock he had received. Artos was too, shocked, but he narrowed his eyes, adopting a calculating look upon his face, not unlike that of Tywin Lannister's.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't march you over to Lord Stark right now."

Domeric held his hands in the air in a defensive gesture. "Please, just listen to me. I swear on the Old Gods, and my honour, that this was not a lightly made decision."

He told them the things he'd seen in the dungeons of the Dreadfort; how the rumours about House Bolton were true. He'd since then learned that not every Lord Bolton had practiced flaying, but his father always preached about the Bolton lands being a peaceful land and its people a quiet people; his father's amusements were his own, and none of those 'quiet people' would have any say in his illegal activities.

He knew he'd won the twin Starks over when he saw their shocked expressions morph into ones of horror and disgust.

"All the more reason to report your lord father to Lord Stark immediately!" Jon protested.

"Do you think Lord Stark would believe me? I have no proof on hand right now," Domeric retorted sharply. "And my motivations can easily be said to be out of ambition. It's not unheard of for a son to dispose of his father for power."

"Aye, and how do we know it's not some elaborate scheme of yours' to—flay a man and blame it on your father?" Artos was suspicious, and Domeric did not blame his caution.

"I left the Dreadfort on my eighth nameday. Do you really think a boy of eight could plot to depose his father before he even truly knew what a lordship meant?" he countered.

Domeric had begged to page and squire outside of the Dreadfort, just to escape the things he had seen. He knew it was craven now, to run instead of condemning his father for his crimes, but those decisions had ironically aided him in a sense; without those decisions, he would have never met the Stark twins, and without them, he'd be hard pressed to find a way to overthrow his father except to wait for his ultimately inevitable demise.

Now that he had their support, he moved on to the next part of his plan.

Ser Andar and Ser Robar were both travel enthusiasts, and Domeric knew the two planned to spend the next few years on the road with their squires to gain experience. With that in mind, he spoke.

"Your mentors plan on taking you around Westeros for the next few years, yes?"

Jon gave a brief glance at Artos. "Aye. What of it?"

"Visit the Dreadfort on one of your travels. I'll host a Northern style melee when I return to the Dreadfort, and I will invite the Starks to my home. I want you to persuade Lord Stark in attending if he is inclined not to attend."

"And you'll show him the victims?" Artos asked dubiously. "What if Lord Stark suspects you of flaying and blaming the crime on your father?"

"I know Roose Bolton," Domeric stated grimly. "Every night on a day of rest, he goes into the bowels of the Dreadfort and flays a man for his entertainment. If I lead Lord Stark there, he'll see what I've seen."

Artos grunted and headed towards the door. "This better not be some kind of mummery, Bolton. It'll be on your head." With those words, the elder Stark twin left the library. Jon's gaze lingered on him a while longer before he, too, followed his twin outside.


	10. The Finale

**JON II**

It was a hot day at Casterly Rock. The sun shone mercilessly in the skies above, and Jon readied his lance, sweating underneath his tunic and armour.

After having weeded out the weaker contestants of the squire's jousting tournament, it was expected to conclude by the end of the day. A boringly short joust between Mychel Redfort and some nameless hedge knight's squire from the Reach had occurred before his own, and now, Jon was to joust against the winner.

Drawing against him was bad luck. Although Jon knew he couldn't win, he was determined to try his best.

Gripping the wooden lance beneath his arm, he heard the trumpet signify the beginning of a new match. He charged, and Mychel's lance struck true on his breastplate. His own lance shattered against his opponent's shield, lessening the impact on his armour, but it still took most of his willpower to stay on his horse.

He leaned forward on his horse, hastily adjusting his position again and sitting up straight. He knew he was going to be unhorsed, but if he leaned too far forward when he was eventually thrown, he did not want his face to land face first into his own horse's back hooves.

Another trumpet noise sounded for the second tilt. He spurred on his horse.

Again, his opponent's lance struck true, his horse faster than his own. Jon's heart almost leaped out of his chest; he could not hear anything but the roar of blood rushing through his ears and the crowd cheering as he was unhorsed.

Painfully, he got up into a sitting position, and was relieved to find his horse on the other end, patiently waiting with watchful eyes. Mychel Redfort offered him a hand up, and he gladly accepted. The crowd cheered once more, and he retreated into a tent to get his bruises checked by a maester.

After some smelly balms and salves, he insisted that he was fine to go watch the rest of the matches; he did not want to miss any with his brother in them. Although he was dismayed to find that he had already missed Artos' victorious joust against Patrek Vance, he was still able to watch the next few matches.

Domeric had won against Lord Jon Arryn's squire, a plain looking fellow called Hugh of the Vale; nobody was sure which house he'd come from, and Jon suspected his squiring might have just been a favour of some kind. Nevertheless, Domeric never failed to impress and defeated the squire in just one tilt.

Artos won two more matches before losing his fourth match of the day; Mychel Redfort won three more, and Domeric also won three more. In the finals, the young Redfort and the Bolton heir faced off against each other on opposite ends of the tiltyard.

Both were tense as they appraised each other's strengths and weaknesses. A loud trumpet bellowed, and their lightning fast horses charged. They clashed.

The crowd cheered, both their lances shattering upon impact. It was a spectacular sight, and Jon couldn't help but feel excited for the outcome of the match. It was said that Lord Tywin Lannister himself would knight the winner of the squire's tourney as a reward.

Tilt after tilt, the two squires fought like battle-hardened knights. On the fifth tilt, Mychel's lance smashed into Domeric's shield, slightly denting the flayed man on it. Domeric wobbled, but stayed on his horse.

The next tilt saw Domeric charge at full speed ahead, his lance piercing Mychel's breastplate before his lance could be aimed properly. Mychel was unhorsed quickly, and the crowd cheered once more for a good show.

The twins clapped politely, and finally, Tywin Lannister stood up from his seat on the podium and began to speak. Cheers and claps died down as the audience quietened.

"And so, the squire's tourney of Lannisport comes to an end. Congratulations to Lord Domeric of the House Bolton, the winner of the tourney. He shall be knighted by myself after the feast tonight. House Lannister also extends an invite to Lord Domeric to sit his vigil beneath the Godswood of Casterly Rock."

Domeric took off his helmet. "I happily accept, Lord Lannister. I thank you for your generous offer."

Lord Tywin nodded, satisfied, before exiting from the high podium, no doubt returning to prepare festivities.

After a Reach-styled feast with dishes of roasted meats decorated with the colours of summer, everyone watched as Lord Tywin knighted Domeric. There were some protests from the chief Septon of Casterly Rock, as Domeric followed the Old Gods, but Lord Tywin was no zealot and promptly ignored the man. It brought some satisfaction to the northern lords.

Jon looked closely, dreaming of a day when he would take Domeric's place, kneeling under some great knight who would knight him proudly with a big warm smile on his face; however, his daydreaming was interrupted when Lord Tywin began to speak.

"Today, we are here to witness the knighting of Lord Domeric of the House Bolton." Lord Tywin unsheathes his sword, a newly-forged ceremonial sword with not a stain of blood on it. It was a blade forged from a new discovery, a steel that rusted less readily than most steels; Jon looked at it in envy, wishing that he too, would have a sword like that.

Lord Tywin dipped the flat of the sword and placed it on Domeric's right shoulder. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." He switched to the left shoulder. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women… Rise, Ser Domeric of the House Bolton. Let all know your honour, and your chivalry."

The crowd roared. Lord Tywin sheathed his sword, and Domeric rose a Ser of the Dreadfort.

Jon clapped, and his brother did too, but he shared a quick look with Artos; while this was all but the end of the squire's tourney, Jon felt as if this was only the beginning.

* * *

 **Yes, yes, I know stainless steel wasn't invented in our world until like the 1900s. I needed a device to flaunt the Lannister's superior wealth and what kind of superior technology that wealth brought (except valyrian steel), so I figured an early precursor prototype of true stainless steel would fit.**

 **I mean, in China, they found a sword coated with Chromium and the blade didn't really rust, and that was from a few thousand years ago, so I wouldn't discount this as impossible that Westerosi scientists found a way to manufacture something similar but less effective than stainless steel.**

 **I also apologise for the very, very late update. It's not that I had writer's block (God forbid) but it was simply because I've been a mess for the past two weeks.**

 **Thank you for reading, and if you can spare some time, a review would be most welcome.**

 **-Aleucard**


	11. On The Road

**I apologise for not updating for an entire month. If it makes you feel any better, I have a feeling that the next few chapters will be quite interesting.**

 **Holy fuck, 10k words and I'm still nowhere near the beginning of the canon plot yet. What have I done?**

 _ **5/7/2017 - Edited a minor spelling mistake. Forgive me, I was trying to finish this chapter at five in the morning, lol.**_

* * *

ARTOS II

 _297AC, somewhere on the Kingsroad_

A few months later, Ser Andar and Ser Robar thought them experienced enough to go on a tour around Westeros; fighting real bandits and being on the road would increase their experience in fighting, they said. Constantly travelling would also increase their stamina; Artos sometimes wondered at that, especially now.

The four, with some but few escorts, had been riding non-stop for eight hours. Under the merciless summer sun, eight hours was a very long time; even five hours ago, sweat had begun to drip from his forehead, and an hour later, into his eyes, causing an irritating sting.

"Are we there yet?" Artos tried not to sound childish, but he knew he'd only succeeded somewhat. He was leaning forth on his horse after many hours of riding, and it was only three hours past noon.

"Want us to hire a carriage for you as well, Your Grace?" Ser Andar mocked. "But seriously, not yet. We have to reach Harroway before nightfall. You _do_ want to sleep on a bed tonight, don't you?"

 _Nightfall,_ he thought as he numbed his mind to his aching muscles. _Around three more hours. I'll sleep on a bed tonight._ He spurred his horse onwards without a word, and Ser Andar smiled. "Good man."

Jon, in contrast, silently rode on without a complaint. He'd always had a better endurance.

When the sun begun to sink in the west and Artos saw the banners of the Lord of Harroway, his body nearly screamed in relief. Ser Andar gave him a brief smile.

"There's still an hour or two before nightfall; we'll be staying here for two days to restock our supplies before heading north." Ser Robar led his horse into the stables of the inn; his brother and the two squires followed.

Ser Andar shoved a few silver stags into their hands.

"Go," he said roughly, attention suddenly somewhere else. "Find yourselves some supper and a mug of ale or something. The night is yours'."

Jon had a puzzled look on his face, but after one disapproving look on Ser Robar's face, Artos already had a good idea on where the elder Royce was going. A woman nearby wearing a sultry look further supported his speculations, and he thought nothing more of it.

Ser Robar was stricter. "Don't listen to him," he told them. "Be back an hour after the sun sets, you hear me?"

"Aye, Ser," they replied.

The younger Royce left them to their own devices, as he, too, begun a search for something to eat. As the twins walked off, Jon asked him where Ser Andar had gone off to.

"By the Gods, Jon," he hissed before whispering the answer into his brother's ear. Jon grew pink with embarrassment.

They found a bigger inn with a built in mess hall, and paid a couple of silver stags for a large chicken and two mugs of ale; they shared the chicken, and after the meal, headed back towards the original inn to retire for the night.

"Do you think Domeric is going to succeed?" Jon asked in a hushed tone.

"Perhaps," Artos replied. "If his cause is just and he has proof, Uncle Ned will take care of it."

"I wonder how that's going to work," Jon muttered. "If our uncle arrives at the Dreadfort as a guest, he won't be able to prosecute Lord Bolton."

"Keep your voice down, and don't mention the man's title," Artos hissed. "I don't trust the people around here."

Jon stared at him incredulously, then shook his head. "You're too paranoid, brother."

"And you're too careless." Artos quickened his pace as the last rays of sun gave way to darkness. "Uncle Ned obviously isn't going to do that directly; he'll just get Domeric to arrest him and transfer the custody to him when the truce period is over. It'd avoid a lot of tension about breaking guest right, and the sooner he loses his head, the better. The northern lords would never stand for a man like him, if what Domeric told us was indeed true."

Jon did not say a word after that, and the walk back remained silent. They scrubbed off a day's worth of sweat and grime before going to bed, eagerly awaiting the next stop on their tour north; Greywater Watch.


	12. Greywater Watch

**I apologise for the long wait; I've been busy with a fuck ton of paperwork and visa documents and stuff. I actually got into university, holy shit.**

 **So, here's the next instalment of The Severed Branch. I hope you enjoy, and please review if you can spare some time!**

* * *

JON III

Travelling through the Neck was, indeed, a pain in the neck.

Returning to the North meant travelling through the territory of the crannogmen, and most parties did not make it through the Neck without the crannogmen leading them through a mysterious road, or visiting Greywater Watch first.

Jon's own father had perished along the road near the Neck, and it awakened a deep feeling of grief within him, as if he had just realised he had lost something. He resolved not to think of how Lord Stark came upon his father, weak, injured and dying with two babes.

"We'll reach the meeting point a few hours before sunset," Ser Andar promised.

Jon hoped it was so, for it was only yesterday that a man within their party had gone missing in the night. Ser Andar and Ser Robar spoke naught of it, but he had heard a few younger men in the camp say that the man had gone out for a piss, only to be eaten by a lizard lion. No matter how interesting the road was, civilization was still much safer, and that was almost infinitely truer in the dangerous marshes of the Neck.

Near two hours later, the sun was still high in the sky, yet its rays were blocked by the dappled leaves of the mangroves. A small, short crannogman dressed in slightly muddied, crudely woven clothes suddenly came out of nowhere and began to address them. Ser Andar and Ser Robar had made sure to fly their personal arms on the banners, but the branches of the mangroves were low and they were forced to put them away; hurriedly, a few men pulled out the banners again to show the crannogman, and the latter nodded in confirmation.

"I assume you are Ser Andar, and this is your party?"

The man was soft spoken, but had a distinct northern accent; Jon immediately felt more at ease. The accent spoke of home, of a much simpler time when he, Artos, and Robb played in the summer snows with not a care in the world.

Ser Andar gave a large smile. "You would be correct. Pardon me, you are…?"

"Rickard, Ser. An advisor of Lord Reed. Lord Reed has given me orders to give offer you our hospitality, and to allow you passage North."

"Then I thank him for his generosity," Ser Andar said. "Please, do lead on."

The party, led by Rickard, led their horses on foot. After hours of travel on foot, Jon began to feel sores, but he was even more determined to get to the castle when he thought he saw a lime green snake shoot past.

Artos had commented that the snake was probably one native to the place, a venomous creature whose bite turned flesh black and seasoned warriors into wailing babes. He shuddered at the thought, and increased his pace.

They reached a shallow part of water that Rickard said was safer to go across—by no means absolutely safe, of course, but that was normal. Thankfully, the entire party had made it through, both themselves and their horses intact. They soon began to feel something odd.

The ground was moving.

The earthen floor did not look moveable, but it shook as it somehow glided across a less dense, more watery part of the marshes; such a sight made Jon almost want to gape, but he remembered his courtesies, and the buzzing flies just waiting to dive into his mouth, and he locked his mouth shut.

It took them a few minutes to realise they were right at the gates; they were blended into their surroundings so well, that Greywater Watch might as well have been the epitome of "hiding in plain sight". The walls were not made of stone, as it would've been too heavy for the floating island, but some bits were patched with mud and some with smelted mud and clay bricks. Surprisingly, the interior was rather comfortable, even if Ser Andar wrinkled his nose at the mud structures with carefully concealed disdain.

Jon, however, was not feeling any of that. He marveled at the excellent camouflage. Artos, too, was curious about something about the smelting process used to create the building materials, and continually bombarded Rickard with questions; the man gladly explained.

Jon was less curious about the more scholarly aspects of the structure, but instead was equally enamoured by its defenses. He had been trained all his life to become a commander for his cousin Robb, or even lead other bannermen into battle as a lord; it was difficult _not_ to appreciate the strategic security measures that generations of Reeds had put into use, to great effect.

When Jon voiced his concerns about the local snakes, Rickard gave a short laugh and told him not to worry, that the borders of the keep were lined with brimstone, something snakes avoided like the plague due to its more than unique smell.

Before long, the party was greeted by the Lord of Greywater Watch himself—Lord Howland Reed. Jon knew from Lord Stark's stories that Lord Reed was present when his father died in the Lord of Winterfell's arms, and that the man had also had his men escort the twins and his liege lord safely back to Winterfell; he had a lot to thank the man for, and he showed his gratitude by giving an awkward smile when the man came to greet him.

"We meet again at last, Jon and Artos Stark," he says with a solemn air. "I see much of your father in you."

Jon couldn't help but feel that something was amiss when Lord Howland's gaze lingered on him a little longer than it had on Artos, but he paid it no mind.

"We thank you for your generosity and kindness in allowing us to stay at your keep," Artos said, the silver-tongued words flowing out of his mouth easily. A spark of excitement in his green eyes resembled glowing pots of wildfire, his gregarious nature showing itself in his words.

Lord Reed smiled. "And you are very welcome in our humble keep," he says. The crannogman glances back, and gently ushers a girl and a boy forwards. "These are my children, Meera and Jojen."

Meera gave a clumsy curtsy, and the three boys bowed to each other. Jon thought the two were a little out of practice, but instead of feeling disdain, he felt closer to home, where southern courtesies were less common. He smiled warmly at them.

"Meera, Jojen, why don't you show Lord Artos and Lord Jon where they'll be staying? I will be showing the Sers to their rooms." The children nodded, and the man went off to show Ser Andar and Ser Robar their rooms.

"You must be tired," Meera said after her father left. "We do not have many servants here, so after the first bath is drawn for you, you'll have to get water for yourselves afterwards."

The twins nodded without protest. Just getting a bath was a godsend, and they were used to getting water on their own when it was available anyway.

Suddenly, Jojen turned his faraway gaze to the Starks. "Are one of you two really going to be marrying my sister? You don't look like much."

Jon ignored the insulting comment and turned as white as a sheet at the mention of marriage, and Artos only laughed nervously. Meera shushed her brother, embarrassed.

"Was that one of the reasons why we're stopping at Greywater Watch?" Artos commented dryly after recovering from the initial shock.

"Nothing is for certain yet, only whispers in the wind," Meera said. "My father did mention Lord Stark considering marriage prospects for the both of you, and his eldest."

"We have marriage prospects?" Jon blurted. He immediately shrunk back when he realised he spoke aloud. He was educated to be one of Robb's generals in times of war, and although Artos seemed to have taken to more courtly matters of his education, he never thought he'd be anything more. The twins had nothing to inherit but a burnt patch of land somewhere, and whatever of their father and grandfather's few worldly possessions they'd given to Lord Stark for safekeeping.

Meera shrugged. "I believe Lord Stark has plans for you two that includes restoring old ruins of castles of the first men, and also building newer towns and trade hubs. Although the North doesn't lack in land or resources, it does lack in population and development. Perhaps he wants to remedy that by granting lands to men he trusts."

They reached the end of the hallway, and Meera gestured to the two rooms at the end that faced each other. "Those two rooms are yours'," she said. "There is a connected room in each room, where you'll find a bath already drawn for you. My father wishes for us, you two and your mentors to dine together as soon as possible. The servants will come tell you when sup is ready, so we will see you then."

Artos nodded. "See you, my lady, my lord." His twin bowed and Jon followed suit.

Meera and her brother retreated down the hallway. Jon shared a quick glance with his twin before they parted ways, eagerly stepping into the room in search for his well-deserved bath.


	13. Grandfather's Trinkets

**My god, I'm so sorry for the wait.**

 **I've been deathly ill for the past week, with body aches from hell, sores, fevers and shit like that. My parents think I must have caught some nasty flu at the crowded area when my dad and I were doing visa documentation at the UK Embassy's place last week.**

 **Regardless, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It's a bit boring in my opinion, but I'm still setting up a few plots. As I told a certain guest in private message, Cregan doesn't really look like a Stark unless you compare his facial structure with one and look veeery closely. To clarify, this is because Cregan's mother was from a noble family in Lys.**

 **Also, Torrhen (Artos' grandfather) had some really weird shit in his possession that will be very important to the plot later on. Stay tuned.**

* * *

ARTOS III

While Greywater Watch was no southron castle stuffed with unnecessary grandeur, it was good enough for any man on the road for several moon turns.

Around an hour after his bath, Artos was interrupted by a knock at the door, where a servant notified him of sup. He put on a grey doublet above his white tunic and draped a charcoal grey, fur lined cloak on his back before heading out. Although it was summer, the lands above the neck remained cold; while it wasn't cold enough to snow yet in the Neck, Artos knew it would be soon when the mangroves would freeze over, their roots covered by thick layers of soft snow.

 _Winter is coming, after all,_ Artos thought.

He reached the great hall, where Ser Robar, Ser Andar, Jon, and himself were invited to the High Table, although it wasn't much of one; the High Table was only a half-step above the long tables in the hall, where the other members of the household dined.

Artos wondered if the crannogmen truly ate frogs, and they did, but surprisingly, it didn't taste horrible; it tasted more like chicken, which was rather strange.

The crannogmen also dined on a crop called rice, a crop from Yi Ti that was soft, white, and fluffy, and after a while tasted a little sweet in the mouth. It wasn't quite as sweet as the taffy treats or lemon cakes Lord Stark occasionally commissioned as a reward for good behaviour back in Winterfell, but it was enough to give off a pleasant taste.

After sup, Lord Reed invited the twins to his solar to speak privately, saying it had something to do with their father and grandfather. Curious, the twins followed the short lord through a dimly lit cobblestone path to another part of the floating island. There, Lord Reed rummaged through the drawers of a worn looking wooden closet, before placing a white box, a covered painting and a large tome in front of them.

"What are these?" Artos asked.

Upon further inspection, it appeared the box was made of weirwood. It even had a small face carved upon it, some weirwood sap dripped into the carvings to mimic the face of a real weirwood tree.

Lord Reed unveiled the painting to reveal four faces. Artos wondered if the stern, Stark-looking man in the painting was his father. The tome held some strange, writing in High Valyrian in it that Artos could barely understand, so instead, he looked to the crannogman for answers.

"Lord Stark left me with these," he began as he relocked the large drawer of the closet. "These were your father's, and his father's before him. Your grandfather, Torrhen Stark, was one with the wolf's blood. He sailed across the seas, some say even to Old Valyria, although I wouldn't put much stock into those rumours. Lord Stark put some of your heirlooms in my care, as our keep is a secluded place. He has sent me a message, not only to notify me of your arrival, but that you are to receive the heirlooms I've kept for all these years."

While Jon picked up the weirwood box, Artos studied the four faces in the painting. There were two men and two women; the Stark-looking man had a long face, grey eyes, and dark hair, wearing a stern expression on his face. He sat next to a woman with an angular nose, silver hair and purple eyes. Behind the couple was a man with silver hair and purple eyes but with a long face and a lean build, and a woman with long, honey-brown hair, a rounded face, and green eyes, much like Artos' own features.

He knew immediately that the woman with green eyes was unmistakably his mother.

"Lord Reed, who's the man with silver hair?" he asked.

"That's your father," he replied.

Artos stared at the image of his father. Although his colouring mostly resembled his mother, upon looking closely, his father's eye shape and skull shape looked almost identical to his own, also somewhat similar to Uncle Benjen's. Artos tore his gaze away from the painting to look at Jon. While Jon's nose was more angular, he still had a long face and the typical Stark colouring, just like the older man in the painting.

"Is the man with dark hair our grandfather, then?" Jon asked, finally putting down the box to take a look at the painting. "It's hard to imagine father looking a little Valyrian."

"Aye," Lord Reed said. "Lord Cregan inherited his mother's colouring."

Meanwhile, Artos put down the painting and began deciphering the High Valyrian tome. He was far from fluent in the language, but was able to determine some kind of crude pie recipe written by his grandfather. There were a few more pages of unintelligible writing, as well as a bunch of sketches of blades and other miscellaneous items. The final filled page of the tome contained an innocuous, crude sketch of a horn, although Artos had no idea what some horn would do when compared to all the other awesome weapons.

It was late, and the twins bade Lord Reed good night before taking the items back with them.

That night, Artos felt a pull towards the weirwood box; he held it in hand as he slept, and it pulled him into his mind.

He dreamt of a house. Parts of it were up in flames, the smoke produced making it a chore for Artos to truly see what was going on; various paintings and vases had fallen over, some of the desks and furniture were smoking or broken, and he thought he heard a scream in the next room. When he tried to open the door to seek out the source of the scream, however, the door was locked.

Parts of the walls flickered, sometimes into an ash covered, blackened surface, and sometimes into a properly furnished wall with half a painting still on. The splintered part of the painting seemed to be almost unnaturally, perfectly cut at the section of the split, and Artos doubted anyone, even an exceptionally skilled craftsman, could cut an object so precisely; it was uncanny.

Soon, all the flickering panels synced together again, and became a blackened mess. The roof had since fallen, and now, all the walls were blackened. A vault in the main stone wall was the only container to have survived, and when Artos opened it, he saw the painting, the tome, and the weirwood box.

He awoke with a jolt, almost screaming, and looked to the weirwood box that was still in his hand. He could've sworn the sap seemed more blood-like than the last time he'd been awake.


	14. AN: Status

**So, it's been five months.**

 **I have a good excuse, I swear. I was supposed to be in university by the end of September, but on the 3rd October I was carted into A &E at four in the morning with a 40C fever and intense body aches.**

 **They did some blood tests on me and found out I had blood cancer, so I've been dealing with that since.**

 **I am NOT giving up on The Severed Branch. I'm just on hiatus, as the chemotherapy makes me tired all the time and it's hard to find time to write between eating, vomiting, eating again, shitting, needing help to shower because I might collapse from anaemia, and sleeping.**

 **As for the other fics, War Against The Daimyo will still be up, but I am considering removing the other cringefests off the site entirely. Maybe. When I have time.**

 **Farewell for now.**

 **-Aleucard**


	15. Watchers of the Forest

**Hey guys.**

 **I'm nearly into maintenance, which is a less intense version of chemotherapy. I haven't vomited in a while, so I thought it'd be best to bring out the next chapter.**

 **I know this chapter is short. Please don't kill me. I'll try and make it longer next time.**

 **-Aleucard**

* * *

JON IV

The eve before the day the party would leave Greywater Watch, Artos gave him their grandfather's weirwood box with a strange expression on his face, as if he were constipated.

"Sleep with this in your bed tonight," he said. "Tell me if you see anything strange."

Jon shrugged and placed the small and innocuous white box on his bedside table. It was already late, and after the Reeds' farewell feast, everyone retreated back to their rooms. Jon did the same, and briefly bathed himself before getting onto the bed.

He remembers his brother's vague instructions about sleeping with the weirwood box, and he slowly reached for it from the top of the bedside table. He placed it next to his pillow, and traced the carved face with his fingers, before falling asleep.

Suddenly, he was in a room with grey stone walls. A painting hung on one of the walls, and the fireplace gave off a cozy warmth that reminded Jon of Winerfell. Two small wooden sculptures sat on the mantle, one of a wolf and the other of a lion.

He heard music in the next room, and opened the door to take a closer look. A silver-haired man and a woman with honey brown hair were dancing to music a young bard was playing on a harp. After a few seconds, the song ended, and the man dismissed the bard.

The bard bows, and gets up from his seat. Jon attempted to flag down the bard, but even as he stood in front of him, the bard seemed to walk through him with no evidence he'd even seen Jon.

It left Jon horrified, yet confused. But he listened, as now, the man and the woman was speaking in soft tones to each other.

He recognized the couple from the painting, and knew them to be his parents, but it was impossible—Cregan and Jorelle were long dead, weren't they? How is it possible he saw them?

Cregan helps Jorelle towards a seat and sits down next to her.

"Are you happy with me?" he asks. "I know the estate isn't as big as what you would've lived in if you had married the man your father wanted you to…"

Jorelle only gives an unladylike snort. "Would I be here, bearing you twins, if I misliked you? You should know by now that I wouldn't marry that man, even if he is wealthier than you."

Jon did notice that his mother was heavily pregnant—and there was no other explanation; he knew those twins would eventually become himself and Artos. However, it still didn't answer the questions he had swimming in his head. He had tried calling out to them, but they either ignored him, or they couldn't hear him at all.

"I am happy with you," Cregan said honestly.

She giggles. "Yes, you foolish man. I'm happy too."

"What do you think they'll look like?" Cregan wonders dreamily.

"It's up to the Gods."

They continued their inane talk, but Jon listened to every detail and every word of their conversation, relishing in their voices long past. Slowly, although Jon attempted to protest against it, the scene faded away, until he felt himself back on the bed in Greywater Watch again.

It was minutes away from dawnbreak. He sat up groggily. As dawn had not come yet, the sky was still indigo, but it was light enough that what little light from the window casted a blue hue over the room. He snapped his gaze towards the weirwood box, and found the red sap in the carving glowing.

Eventually, the glow wore off. Jon didn't want to admit it, but he knew little of the artefact and its powers, and it scared him.

He grabbed the box after the red glow subsided, and leaped off the bed. He slipped on his clean pair of boots, and went outside into the hallway, knocking lightly on the door to Artos' room across his own.

He heard a groan inside, and seeing how the door was unlocked, he went in.

"Artos. Wake up."

Green eyes snapped open in attention. Artos stretched out like a cat, and turned his gaze to Jon.

"Did you see anything?"

Jon grimaced. "Aye." He then told him his experience with the box. A frown formed on Artos' face.

"I think the box allows us to see the past," Artos theorized uncertainly.

"Perhaps." Both boys were followers of the Old Gods, and grew up on stories about the watchful weirwoods that were littered across the north, forever watching, forever remembering. Could a box made of the same material have the same properties?

After breaking their fasts, the party once again double checked their supplies. Ser Andar began shouting orders, breaking Jon's train of thought.

It was time to leave for the next castle.

A few men led them out of their domain safely, and as soon as the marshes faded out from behind them, so did the crannogmen. The mostly southron party mounted their steeds once more, the familiar thundering of hooves comforting to the young squire, allowing him to temporarily forget the box, the tome, the painting, and most importantly, the Dreadfort.


	16. The Dreaded Fort of Dread

**Hello, guys.**

 **Another really short chapter, but I've already written more than half of the next one and this one is for building tension and setting the stage, really.**

 **So, we finally get to the Dreadfort. Roose, Ramsay, and Domeric are all there. Who lives? Who dies? Who knows? *cackles***

 **Next chapter, shit is going to hit the fan.**

* * *

 **ARTOS IV**

Over the past few weeks, the party had slowed down their pace, staying at the ruins of Moat Cailin for a few brief days to prepare to cross the White Knife.

Moat Cailin was a ruin, but it was still an awe-inspiring structure. Its intimidating towers, built of dark, stone bricks the size of humans, made Artos even more proud of his Northern heritage.

Eventually, they crossed the White Knife, and stayed at White Harbour, seat of House Manderly, for another week and a bit. They visited Hornwood for an even briefer period.

While at Hornwood, Artos had overheard some maidservants' gossip about a bastard who lived in the Weeping Water; another dead, they'd whispered.

There was no mistaking it; it must be Ramsay Snow.

Unfortunately, before Artos could gain any more information, he tripped over an uneven stone in the floor, cursing, and caused the gossipers to scatter and return to their duties. Regardless, if he ever met the Bolton bastard, he'd be on full alert.

Currently, though, they were approaching the border between the lands of Lord Bolton and the lands of Lord Hornwood.

A few pink spots appeared on the horizon, standing out against the stark summer snows. It was hard to see; the skies were as dark as the pelts of the wolves common in the North. A storm of snowflakes flew across between their party and the party ahead sporting pink banners; although the snowing blurred their vision, it was clear what house the patrol ahead belonged to.

"Halt! Who goes there?" a voice called out.

"I am Ser Andar Royce of Runestone. I am with my brother Ser Robar Royce, and our squires Jon Stark and Artos Stark."

Artos felt unsettled. Somehow, he felt as if the Bolton's patrol party were specifically waiting for them at the border.

"Lord Bolton has been expecting you." The man felt unexplainably slimy. "Allow us to accompany you to the Dreadfort."

 _The Dreadfort. The fort of dread. The fort_ I've _been dreading, most certainly._

It was a short ride, and soon, they arrived at the gates. The Dreadfort was a fear-inducing presence. Artos couldn't help but notice a few human skins proudly hanging next to the banners. By the maroon-coloured, crusted blood that must have dripped from the skins onto the walls an age ago, Artos came to the conclusion that the previous owners of the skins must've died a long time ago.

Or, at least he hoped so.

 _The blood is simply here because nobody had bothered to clean it up, right? It's just for intimidation, right?_

Artos would have thought that before the Tourney of Lannisport, but after having that little chat with Domeric Bolton, he wasn't so sure. He shivered and tried to ignore the grisly decorations, if you could call it that. Ser Andar, Ser Robar, and most of the southern party blanched at the sight, and Jon had to stifle a retch.

"Ryger, returning from patrol!" hollered the leader of the Bolton's party.

The gates creaked open. A familiar face greeted Artos. The Stark managed a smile as Domeric went over to greet his guests.

"Jon. Artos. It's been a while," he said.

"It's been a while," Jon agreed, still looking a bit green. His dark haired twin glanced at Artos' direction. It was most unlike him to be silent.

"Indeed, Ser Domeric," Artos replied after a brief silence, a calm façade hiding his true anxiety. He took a quick glance at the human skins again, and turned his attention to the heir of the Dreadfort.

"How long has _that_ been there?"

He wished he hadn't asked that question, as Domeric's expression betrayed some of his grimness. "Not as long as you'd think."

Artos swallowed and walked closer to Domeric, using a handshake as an excuse to whisper to him. "How long until…?"

"Four more days," Domeric muttered to him under his breath. "Lord Stark arrives in two days at the latest, but he is a decent rider. Four more days, and the truth will be known. You have my word."

The Leech Lord greeted the two pale knights of Runestone and the older, more important men in their party. Meanwhile, Domeric looked left and right, making sure nobody else except Jon overheard. "I will call you in as witnesses. You see that woman over there?"

Without moving his head, Artos subtly glanced where Domeric was looking. A plump woman, dressed in a brown and white dress, was carrying some supplies, probably towards the Dreadfort kitchens. "That's Arra. I trust her absolutely; she raised me since my mother died, until I became a page at Barrowton. She will tell you when I call for you."

Artos gave a curt nod. Domeric changed the subject just as his father approached them and gave them bread and salt.

Artos and Jon each took a bite. "Domeric." The Lord of the Dreadfort had a soft voice that sent the hairs on the back of Artos' neck on end. "Your friends must be tired. Please show them to their quarters."

Domeric bowed. "Yes, father."


	17. A Bolton Trial

**So, I recently got into Doctor Who. Since then I've got this plot bunny in my head, wherein the tenth AND the eleventh doctor somehow gets lost in Westeros. How much chaos would that cause, and how funny would that be?**

 **Well, I'm going to try and put The Severed Branch as a first priority though, because God knows, once I get new ideas my enthusiasm for those ideas overpowers my enthusiasm for old plot bunnies, and then I forget about the old ones and it makes it very difficult for me to get a grip and finish whatever I start. Fun fact: Because of this, I've never actually finished a story.**

 **Not to mention, after re-reading the chapters, I realised the format of my POV indicators are always inconsistent and are sometimes bold and sometimes not. Gotta fix that sometime.**

 **Death to evil bunnies. And plots. Mostly just evil plot bunnies.**

 **Oh, yes, trigger warning, by the way. There's torture in this chapter.**

 **Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **JON V**

Jon was thankful for the lack of human skins, at least in the Great Hall of the Dreadfort. He wasn't sure he could've stomached any meals otherwise. Some other areas of the Dreadfort already had a suspicious, metallic scent that he didn't want to think about.

Lord Stark and their cousin Robb had arrived two days past. The family reunion was brief, but warm.

After Lord Stark accepted Lord Bolton's bread and salt, though, Jon began to doubt Domeric's plans. Guest right was sacred to most, if not all Westerosi, and even if Lord Bolton was flaying people in secret, Lord Stark would have a hard time executing his host. Regardless, Domeric had politely asked them to be his witnesses, and Jon would stay strong for justice.

The Dreadfort, being relatively geographically close and similar to Winterfell, offered typical Northern dishes that Jon had sorely missed during his time in the Vale. The feast that night offered a simple, rustic bread, venison from the day's hunt, and a Northern vegetable stew. Lord Bolton didn't spend much on hiring an entertainer, and instead a bard played some soft music in the background whilst Lord Stark spoke with his vassal at the high table in quiet tones.

Jon wonders what they're speaking of, but the smell of Northern ale distracts him. Men and boys from the lower tables are already filling their tankards from the kegs, and Jon looks over to Robb and Artos, who are both looking at Lord Stark. The latter slowly gives a nod. Robb immediately jumps up from his seat with his own tankard and begins to fill it from a keg. Artos rises from his seat and reaches for his own, but Jon looks at him.

"Don't get drunk. You know who comes looking for us tonight," he said seriously. Artos rolled his eyes.

"Mother hen," he accused. "I'll only have one cup. I don't plan on getting piss drunk tonight, out of all nights."

Jon decided not to have any ales. He empties his cup of hot water and sets it on the table, his stomach warm and satisfied. He looked over to the high table and was able to make out some annoyance in Lord Bolton's pale, milky, creepy irises.

"Lord Stark seems to have caused some ire from Lord Bolton," Artos whispers into his ear. Artos had claimed he was learning to read minds lately, but Jon thought it was only exaggeration.

"What are they talking about?" Jon asks back quietly. His twin narrowed his eyes as he concentrated on the conversation that they could barely hear.

"Something about Sansa's betrothal," Artos replies after a moment of observation. "In the given context, I would guess Lord Bolton suggested she be wed to Ser Domeric, and that Lord Stark refused him."

Jon didn't comment further, but he was secretly glad. While Ser Domeric didn't seem like that bad of a man, he would only trust a Bolton as far as he could throw one. Besides that, he wasn't sure he'd trust any man with the girl who grew up like a sister to him and Artos.

Soon, the feast ended and the twins excused themselves. Artos had elected to share a room this time, as both Ser Andar's party and Lord Stark's retinue of guards staying meant the Dreadfort was tightly packed. Nearing the hour of the wolf, a gentle knock sounded on their door. Jon jumped at the sound, and anxiously opened the door to their chambers.

As promised, Arra was there.

"If you would follow me, milords? Master Domeric is waiting—Lord Bolton has done it."

Artos nods. Jon clenches his fists, his knuckles whitening, but he nods too.

Before they could follow her, however, a horrifying stench assaulted Jon's sensitive nose, and the hairs on his neck stood on end as a shadow stood behind the older woman. A dark chuckle escaped from the huge shadow, nearly twice Jon's height, as it stopped mere inches from behind Arra.

Thump.

The monster flung the maidservant on one of his thick shoulders, and Jon blanches as the stench comes closer.

And closer.

And closer.

The last thing he hears is Artos roaring before his vision blackens.

When he awakens, his head is pounding, and it seemed the stench did not go away since the last time he was awake. Someone had splashed freezing water upon his head, and he yelped as the cold permeated his body.

Thunk.

Jon flinched silently as pain flooded his right cheek. He stared in disbelief at the blood trickling down from his mouth, and absentmindedly noted that the man in front of him must have loosened one of his teeth. And by the Old Gods and the New, did he stink.

His vision began to wander, and he saw that he was in a cell. A familiar face was opposite his cell, already bruised and bloody.

 _Artos!_ He struggled, but his own two hands were chained to the wall. And he hears a familiar voice scream, and without a doubt, he knew it was Arra.

He could make out the guilt in Artos' wildfire green eyes, but they harden and he spits onto the floor. "Fuck you, you shit," he snaps. "What kind of cunt hurts innocent women?"

"You might as well confess now, milk-drinker." A skinnier man was in Artos' cell, holding some kind of skin-coloured monstrosity in his hands. It was a whip, Jon realised. A crack sounded, and suddenly his twin's shirt became soaked with blood. Jon hears a gasp, and the skinny man cackles, his mad laughing echoing in whatever hell they'd been brought to.

The bigger, stinkier man in his cell was not much of a talker. "Confess." He punched Jon in the stomach, and he slumps against the cold stone wall, dry-heaving.

"Confess… what?"

"You've been plotting against our Lord."

"Where's Domeric?" he hears Artos roar like his sigil from the other cell, more pissed than Jon had ever seen him.

The stinky man only smirks. "The young master ain't coming to save you. Lord Bolton's known all along."

Jon could barely think. He feels a violent kick to his stomach, and instead of a confession, that night's stew comes flying out his mouth on his torturer's boots. At the corner of his eye, he sees a mess of what used to be Arra whimpering. Jon looks in horror as he realised that one of the gaolers had cut out her tongue and one of her hands.

"Don't you worry… you're still kin of Lord Stark. Lord Bolton's ordered us not to maim you." The words didn't bring Jon any relief, as a grin spread wide on his torturer's face. "Too much, anyway."

It felt like days before the men grow tired of them and leave, as neither of them confessed. After they left, Jon could see Artos more clearly; he was bound to a diagonal cross, much like the one the Boltons' flayed man was bound to. His brother's originally white tunic stained with browning blood from the lashes he'd taken. The dungeon was silent except for Arra's muffled cries. Even Artos' fiery eyes grew dim.

"I'm sorry, brother," he said quietly.

Jon looks at him questioningly.

"For bringing us into this mess," he explains. "We should've never gotten involved."

"You got the scars you so desired," Jon tried to jape. "When we get out, maidens will be swooning at you."

" _If_ we get out," Artos said darkly.

Silence reigned for a moment. "There is nothing to forgive," Jon said in a soft voice. "I agreed to play witness for Ser Domeric, same as you."

"I'm older, I should've protected you—"

"Cut the shit, Artos," Jon grunted. "You're at most a couple of minutes older than I am."

Artos barked out a short laugh. "Back to this argument again, I see."

Jon flushed in embarrassment as he remembered the days when they argued about who was older. It seemed, frankly, ridiculous now.

Hours passed, and Jon thought they were quite lucky to have occupied cells just one level below the keep; the small, barred hole above where he was chained began to grow lighter, and he knew it was past dawn by now.

The men from last night did not return; instead, a whole new group of men appeared to release them from the cells. Arra was left in her own. An unfamiliar man with the same unease-inducing eyes as Lord Bolton gave them a sinister sort of smile. Artos stiffens, but says nothing.

"I'm Ramsay, son of Lord Roose Bolton." His bastard, then. "My father originally wanted you executed. You are lucky your cousin is Warden of the North. Lord Stark has insisted on a proper trial." Ramsay smirks. "I will escort you to where generations of Boltons have judged men."

They were led to a hall more or less the same size as the Great Hall, yet this one had more skins than any other building he'd seen so far.

 _It's probably to intimidate criminals_ , Jon thought, shivering, and then shook his head to clear his head from fear. _I'm no criminal scum._

Jon felt the eyes of many on them. Lord Stark sat on the high chair on the dais, originally meant for Lord Bolton. The latter must have conceded the place to his liege lord.

He saw rage enter Lord Stark's grey eyes as they came into sight. Whether it was directed at them for being involved, the state they were left in, or both, Jon could not tell.

"Artos of the House Stark, and Jon of the House Stark. You stand accused by Lord Roose of the House Bolton of breaking guest right and plotting against your host. How do you plead?" Lord Stark's voice was eerily calm, but Jon could tell a storm was coming.

"Not guilty," Artos says in a strong voice.

"Not guilty." Jon followed firmly.

Sometime after Lord Bolton had called in the stinky man as his first witness, the bastard and his men had disappeared. With each word he spoke, Artos grew redder with anger.

"I heard the two discussing their plot against my lord," the man sneers, ugly yellow teeth bared.

"And you're a fucking liar!" Artos snarled. "We did nothing of the sort!"

The attending lords began to mutter, but Lord Stark slammed his hand against the table in front of him. "Silence! This is a noble court, not a fish market!"

The mutterings were stamped down. If Lord Stark was any angrier, Jon would've sworn he could see steam coming out of his ears. The Lord of Winterfell made an impressive effort in hiding his rage, and continued. He looked at Jon. Jon swallowed. "Jon of the House Stark. Do you have anything to say to this?"

Now was his chance. He looked at Artos, who still hadn't calmed down from the lies spun. "I do, Lord Stark."

"Then speak," Lord Stark said levelly, using a hand gesture to encourage him.

He'd thought of Arra first, but he remembers how Arra's tongue was cut out the previous night; Arra was not of gentle birth, and most likely did not know how to read and write either; besides, in a noble's court, the word of a peasant would not be taken as seriously as the word of nobility. Jon gritted his teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching.

"We did not plan anything against Lord Bolton, nor did we plot against him," he began. "I would have called a servant within this keep as she witnessed the event last night, but unfortunately…" he glared at the stinky Bolton man, "Lord Bolton's witness cut off her tongue and hand."

Lord Stark snapped his gaze to Lord Bolton, his grey eyes narrowing. Lord Bolton did not meet his eyes.

"Lord Stark, I would like to speak," Artos interrupted.

"Granted, Artos of the House Stark."

His twin straightened his back. "Several moon turns ago, at the Tourney of Lannisport, we first met Lord Bolton's son and heir, Ser Domeric. Ser Domeric talked to us after one of the feasts, and asked of us to visit the Dreadfort on our travels so that we may bear witness to his father's crimes."

"Objection." Lord Bolton's eyes stared at Artos. Lord Stark glared at the Leech Lord.

"Objection denied. Please continue."

"Ser Domeric accused his father, Lord Roose Bolton of the crime of flaying, a practice banned centuries ago by House Stark," Artos continued. "Jon and I agreed to be witnesses, nothing more, nothing less. When Ser Domeric greeted us, he told us he would send the servant to our room when the time was right. That time was last night, but somehow, Lord Bolton knew of Ser Domeric's orders." Artos bared his teeth and snarled. "And then he had his lying lackey over there knock Jon unconscious and arrest us."

Lord Stark's expression grew stormy at Artos' testimony. "And where is Ser Domeric now, Lord Bolton?" he asked in a voice as cold as winter.

Before the latter could answer, the Bolton bastard made a reappearance with a sadistic smirk on his face, his trueborn brother beside him. "Search no more, Lord Stark," the bastard declares with a proud look on his face. "I have brought my brother to you."

Ser Domeric Bolton was now every inch the terrifying Bolton Jon had expected before he'd met the man. He had never seen the usually calm knight that angry before—his ears were fully red, and his pale irises could bore holes into the target of his ire—his own lord father.

"What is going on here?" Domeric's icy voice asked.

"Artos of the House Stark and Jon of the House Stark stand accused of plotting against Lord Bolton," Lord Stark said.

Domeric huffed in anger, as if he were a stubborn stallion. "They are innocent of crime." He turns to his bastard brother and speaks. "Thank you, brother. I owe you."

Ramsay Snow only smirks. "Pleased to be of service."

Artos' green eyes looked back and forth, as if thinking of a way to get out of the situation. Jon remained silent, staring at Lord Stark, wondering what he would do next.

"Ser Domeric, would you mind verifying this truth?" Lord Stark asked.

"Of course." The Bolton knight strides forward. "I, Domeric of the House Bolton, swear on the Old Gods and the New that I will speak the truth."

Lord Stark idly tapped on the table. "Did the accused plot against your lord father?"

"No," Domeric said firmly. "They have never. _I_ plotted against my father."

The crowds gasped, and the mutterings began again. One of the lords, an Umber, suddenly stood up and stomped on the floor. "All of you shut the fuck up and let the boy speak!" he bellowed. The lords were silenced once more.

Lord Stark smiled at the man in gratitude before he asked a simple question. "And what part did the accused play in this?" He bade Domeric continue.

"I requested that they bear witness against my lord father, Lord Roose Bolton, in order to arrest him for his crimes of flaying," Domeric replies confidently.

Lord Stark nods. The Bolton bastard suddenly speaks up.

"Lord Stark, if I may be so bold, I would like to testify."

Lord Stark's eyes turn cold at the sight of Ramsay, but he grants him permission. Jon didn't like the gleeful expression on his face, nor his pale, gleaming eyes.

"I have also seen Lord Bolton flay a man before. Alas, I am but his natural son—I could not report him, as he was kind enough to take me into his keep and spare a hearth for me. This morn, I saw the late Lady Bolton's servant in a cell without her tongue or her right hand… I then heard my brother was under house arrest, so I had the lock on his room picked, and brought him here."

"Arra!" Domeric gasps. "She was only following my orders!"

Lord Stark's expression was dark. "I have heard enough. In the name of King Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, hereby declare Artos of the House Stark and Jon of the House Stark innocent of all crimes." Two Stark guards release them, and they are ushered to a familiar face.

"Maester Luwin!" Jon exclaims in relief. "It is wonderful to see you again."

"I wish we could have met again under better circumstances," Artos apologised.

The maester shook his head. "I live to serve House Stark. It is no problem."

Before that, though, Lord Stark had seen fit to arrest Roose Bolton for his many crimes, and the stinking man for perjury. Jon saw Lord Stark speak with Robb in quiet tones, and it was decided that the following day, Roose would be tried. As the stinking man had already proved himself a liar, even in the sight of the Gods, he was executed immediately that afternoon.

This time, however, Robb would be the judge, while Lord Stark would play the plaintiff.

The feast that night was more solemn, even more so than the previous ones. After their meal, Lord Stark borrowed the Boltons' solar and summoned the two of them to give them the bollocking of their lives.

"You should have told me about this before you decided on anything," Lord Stark scolds them crossly. "If you had, perhaps I could've done something before Bolton hurt you!"

Jon and Artos bowed their heads.

"I take full responsibility," Artos said with a stoic mask on his face, although Jon knew him for long enough that he was scared of Lord Stark's possible punishment. "I was foolish and reckless. It won't happen again."

If Jon was honest with himself, he feared Lord Stark's wrath too. "And I was too. I'm sorry, Lord Stark," he said meekly.

Ned sighs, and his lord mask disappears. "I won't punish you for wanting to bring a man to justice. Even if I wanted to, you two have suffered enough for it." He looks pointedly at the bandages beneath Artos' tunic and the black and blue bruises under Jon's. "Let's hope this serves as a lesson for you two. You are both nearing manhood, and may even be knighted sometime in the next few years. Think before you act or speak, and rein in your tempers, or the wolfsblood will get you killed."

"Yes, Uncle Ned," they both say in unison.

"Go rest now. Tomorrow will be a long day, and it is probably time for you to observe, remember, and understand court proceedings if you ever want to be Robb's bannermen one day."

* * *

 **WOOOOOOOOOO!**

 **I think this is the longest fucking chapter I've ever written. 3000+ words, holy shit man.**

 **To address the situation, yes, Ramsay Snow is still an evil cunt. He's a clever evil cunt though, so he'd never risk his balls to testify for his father when his father is on the losing side. Anything else about Ramsay at this point in time are mere rumours, so Ned doesn't really have anything to go after him with. Besides this, Domeric STILL believes Ramsay is a good guy, and especially so since Ramsay freed him from house arrest.**

 **To explain why the twins call Ned Stark both 'Lord Stark' and 'Uncle Ned', it's mostly because they use the formal title when they're scared of him or in public, and they use the other when they're not in trouble, or if they're in private. It's more respectful than 'cousin' even though that's what they kind of are (At least in Artos' case, but neither of them know about Jon's special case).**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter.**

 **-Aleucard**


	18. A Decision

**I do apologise for the late update; the left hinge of my old laptop broke, and I had to back everything up on the internet. I have a new laptop now, and everything I've written is safely backed up, so don't worry.**

 **Hope you enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

 **ARTOS V**

"Fuck!" he hissed as Maester Luwin peeled off his bandages. He cursed some more as the maester retrieved a salve that would prevent his wounds festering.

"Try and be still, Artos," the maester advised. "The wounds aren't deep, but they may fester if left alone."

" _FUCK!_ " He flinched. The salve stung. If he didn't know any better, he would've said the maester's efforts caused him more pain than the skinny, ugly shit that had tortured him the night before yesterday.

Jon was standing smugly in the doorway, having already been treated for severe bruises.

"Stop being a baby," his younger twin teases him. Artos gave him a deadpan stare, but failed to intimidate his brother as he bit out yet another curse.

Today was going to be the day Roose Bolton would be tried, and the fact they were allowed to listen to the proceedings gave Artos some sadistic satisfaction. Bolton was a bastard, and his lackeys weren't any better.

Maester Luwin finished rewrapping his welts with new bandages. "Don't strain yourself too much. If you do, you might rip the stitches, and I don't want to have to sew your wounds shut again."

Artos almost cringed. He got a few stitches yesterday, and it was not fun.

"I won't, maester." He got up from the bed, putting on his favourite charcoal grey cloak and tying it together with a gilded direwolf clasp he'd received from Uncle Ned for his nameday; Jon's cloak was a lighter grey, with a silver direwolf clasp. Together, they went to the Great Hall to break their fasts.

Artos finished his eggs, soft bacon, beans, and toast, washing it down with water instead of his favoured ale. The maester was loathe to allow him any alcohol lest it slow down his healing, and he had probably already worried Uncle Ned enough for the rest of the year, so he decided to listen for once.

Instead, the woundless but bruised Jon taunted Artos with a full tankard of Northern ale. He had cuffed his brother on the back of the head for the slight.

After the morning meal, they were escorted by a few Stark guards to their seats in the Dreadfort's hall of judgment. Lord Stark sat on the side, his expression cold.

Robb enters the hall and awkwardly sat upon the seat of the high judge. The rest of the lords settle in their seats to each side. Their red-haired cousin cleared his throat, and began to speak.

"You may bring in the accused," he said, a little nervous.

Roose Bolton was brought to the court in chains.

"Roose of the House Bolton, you stand accused by Lord Eddard of the House Stark of malicious prosecution against two members of House Stark. You also stand accused by Ser Domeric of the House Bolton of flaying. How do you plead?"

The man stayed silent, but held his head high. For a long moment, he stared at Robb, as if challenging his authority.

Artos saw Robb stifle a sigh. "Very well. The plaintiff may call in their first witness."

After some discussion, Robb hastily made notes on the words of each witness called before moving on to the second accusation. Ser Domeric called upon a jumpy man only known as Symon. The man's forearm had been partially flayed, and his face held an expression of constant terror. When he was called in as a witness, he shook violently at the sight of Roose Bolton.

"Mercy mi'lord!" he screamed. "Please, no more!" Robb grimaced. Artos felt sick at the piece of skin still connected to the man's arm as the latter continued to cry and plead. He wondered at that point whether his face was as green as his eyes.

"Who did this to you, good man?" Robb's voice rang clearly.

The man didn't say a thing, simply pointing at Roose Bolton with his good arm.

Robb frowned. "Very well… Symon may be excused." He wrote a couple of notes, before speaking again. "Maester Luwin, please tend to him."

The maester stood up from his seat and bowed. "My lord." He followed Symon's escort to the maester's quarters.

Ser Domeric then called upon a few witnesses. One was a young woman of a minor house who went by the name of Lydia Wildes.

"Lord Bolton often disappeared during rest day evenings," the woman said. "I served Lady Bethany as her handmaiden before she became Lady Bolton, and I followed her to the Dreadfort when she married. I was still a young lass then. I once believed Lord Bolton spent time with Lady Bethany on such evenings, but Lord Bolton's disappearances continued even after Lady Bethany grew pregnant with Ser Domeric. On some nights, my lady would request late night snacks, and we would talk, like we did when we were girls—she confided in me, telling me that Lord Bolton did unsavory things on those eves, but as women we had no say in such things. I kept her secret long after she passed."

"And did Lady Bolton ever mention what those unsavory things were?" Robb questioned.

"Vaguely, my lord. I was young and naïve, and one night, I asked Lord Bolton if there was anything he needed. He ordered a pitcher of wine from the stores and to deliver the wine to the door to the deepest level of the dungeon. I saw Lord Bolton flaying a man then." Lydia shuddered. "I gave him the pitcher and never went there again."

More notes were taken. Although Robb allowed the Leech Lord to speak in his own defense, the man said nothing, so they took an hour long luncheon break. After some discussion with the lords, Robb sat on the seat of the high judge once more.

Artos wondered what words had been exchanged, but he was not privy to that information. So, he waited for his cousin to give the verdict.

"I had a discussion with my fellow lords on this matter, and have come to a decision." Robb's Tully blue eyes showed more confidence than he did at the beginning of the trial. "In the name of King Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and Lord Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I, Robb of the House Stark, Heir to House Stark, hereby declare Roose of the House Bolton to be guilty of the crimes of malicious prosecution and flaying."

"However, since my father and I came to the Dreadfort as honoured guests, I cannot in good conscience execute my host. Instead, Roose of the House Bolton is to be stripped of all his lands and titles, and sent to the Wall to take the black. The lands and titles will be passed on to his son and heir, Ser Domeric of the House Bolton. Let it be known that House Stark rewards loyal vassals, and punish justly those who do not follow the law. Court dismissed."

While the other lords in attendance filed out of the hall, Artos spots Ser Andar and Ser Robar at the far corner of the hall, talking in hushed tones. It wasn't long before the Royce brothers approached them.

"What a mess," Ser Andar commented. Ser Robar ignored him and instead decided to the twins.

"We've decided that you might appreciate seeing your family and Winterfell again," he began. "I don't think either of you will be allowed to strain yourselves training at the moment, anyway. We discussed some things last night with Lord Stark after he sent you boys to bed. Neither of you can ride at the moment, so the both of you will be sitting in the supplies wagon on the way to Winterfell."

"When do we leave?" Jon asked.

"In three days," Ser Andar replied. "Lord Stark says he has some things to clean up here at the Dreadfort, so he'll stay for two more days after we leave." The elder Royce then smirked. "Don't think you're excused from all of your duties just because you're injured. You're still our squires, and while I don't expect you to train in your current state, you're still polishing our armor and cooking us breakfast on the road."

Jon only nodded, while Artos smirked back. "What, can't live without my perfectly done eggs?"

Ser Andar snorted. "You wish."


	19. The Omen

**AHHHHHHH I'M SO SORRY I HAVEN'T UPDATED IN SUCH A LONG TIME PLEASE FORGIVE ME**

 **Okay, so I've pre-written about three-ish chapters including this one a long, long time ago, but I forgot what I was doing and sort of lost the plot. If there are any plotholes because of this, I'm sorry.**

 **For this chapter, I sort of got some of the wooden direwolf wood meanings from Harry Potter wandlore. Some don't follow HP wandlore but whatever, I'm just talking shit to make it sound realistic.**

 **Hope you enjoy the chapter. Please rate and review if you have any spare time!**

* * *

 **EDDARD III**

It had been a fortnight since Ned arrived back in Winterfell, and already, problems buzzed around his head like flies around piles of shit.

In his absence, Jon Arryn, a man like a father to him, had died; Catelyn had received a ciphered message by raven from her sister, Lysa, claiming the Lannisters had poisoned him. The King was coming to Winterfell—no doubt to ask him to be his Hand, yet Ned hesitated; Starks did not do well in the South.

During the five days he remained at the Dreadfort, Artos had been unusually quiet and subdued after the incident. While he appeared to have regained his witticisms, Jon had reported to him that the boy still occasionally experienced recurring nightmares of their night in the cells; when he thought Ned wasn't looking, his green eyes seemed to be haunted with memories, especially when walking past entrances to the parts of the Dreadfort built belowground. He'd tried to talk with the boy, but he'd deflect all of Ned's questions, insisting that he was fine. Jon's talk with him made it clear that something must have happened before Jon awoke to the freezing water poured upon him.

While still at the Dreadfort, he'd bugged Maester Luwin about the status of Jon and Artos.

"Jon has no open wounds on him as far as I can see," the maester had told him. "The boy has some nasty bruises, but is hardy and quite lucky he didn't get a cold from being soaked. He shall make a full recovery."

"And Artos?" Ned had a bad feeling as the maester sighed.

"Artos… it appears the gaoler had gave him quite a number of lashes that split his skin and caused some bleeding wounds, but wounds heal eventually, and I am not quite as worried about those wounds as some other injuries I've found on him," the maester said grimly. "There are blackened spots and blisters on him, injuries I know that have to have been made by a red hot poker. He was burned. I didn't tell Jon—didn't want the boy to worry too much."

For the first time in his life, Ned felt the urge of his wolfsblood so strongly that he'd almost unsheathed Ice then and there and marched over to the Wall to brutally chop Bolton to grisly bits, but he held onto his temper. He clenched his fists and his knuckles whitened.

Ned wasn't an idiot, though. He could imagine what exactly happened to Artos before Jon woke up—and if he wasn't careful, they would find out about Jon's true parentage, and this he couldn't abide.

So, he took out his rage on the skinny gaoler. The latter's face resembled a human pancake by the time Ned was done with him, and Domeric was only too happy to surrender the man to Ned's tender mercies. Ice was too good for a man like him.

Nobody could know about Lyanna's son.

Still, he worried if Artos would sooner or later figure out that Jon was not his twin brother; despite Cregan's mother, Artos' grandmother, being a Princess of Lys, not all those of Valyrian descent were fireproof; Aegon the Unlikely and his son Prince Duncan were both of the blood, and yet they burned in Summerhall. Artos was a smart lad, and Ned could only hope he would keep his mouth shut if he ever found out the truth.

After dealing with the skinny gaoler, Ned returned to Winterfell hoping for at least a month of peace, but the message from King's Landing once again plunged him in his deep ocean of worries. Worries about Artos' state of mind, worries about people finding out about Lyanna's son, worries about Jon Arryn's death and its consequences, worries about the threat of the Lannisters, and worries about the realm in general.

Ned barely had the time to discuss preparations with Catelyn for the King's arrival; thankfully, his lady wife seemed to have him covered on that front.

He sighed for what was probably the tenth time that day. A man of the Night's Watch, Gared, had deserted. Though Ned wanted to bring Bran with him to witness the execution with the rest of the older Stark men, Catelyn had insisted on Bran staying in Winterfell, so his son was spared.

The deserter's last moments were troubling, too. He was half mad by the time Ned cut his head off—he wondered why.

Ser Andar and Ser Robar decided to stay, at least until the King arrived; leaving before he arrived might be seen as an insult. The two brothers were also grim; their youngest brother, Ser Waymar, had disappeared in a ranging beyond the wall, and if the deserter's words were true, the youngest Royce was likely dead. Ned allowed the Royce brothers both the Godswood and the small sept in Winterfell to pray and grieve.

The corpse of a direwolf bitch was found on the same day that dratted raven from King's Landing arrived. Gored by a stag with seven pups beneath her teats, Ned had wanted to end the pups' lives mercifully; they'd never survive without their mother, but Jon persuaded him to spare the pups and bring them back to Winterfell.

"The direwolf is the sigil of our house, Uncle Ned," he'd said. "Seven direwolves for five of your children and the two of us."

Ned relented. Damn Jon's kind heart.

Catelyn refused to let Jon and Artos meet their children except Robb, which Ned understood somewhat; both needed to recover. So, instead, the twins had their first pick of the direwolves, and the other five pups were presented to his children after they'd picked theirs'.

The children were instantly fascinated with the pups; Robb's wolf, Grey Wind, had smoke grey fur with yellow eyes. Sansa's was named Lady, with fur and eyes very similar to Robb's wolf except her size. Arya chose one with similar fur colour, but with dark golden eyes.

Bran still hadn't named his', but his wolf had a lighter pelt colour and eyes identical to Grey Wind's. Rickon's Shaggydog had a black pelt and bright green eyes.

Jon's Ghost was the runt of the litter, a pure white wolf with red eyes, while Artos' wolf Darkfang looked almost identical to Rickon's with black fur and green eyes, except for the small nick on Darkfang's left ear.

As Ned finished his stack of paperwork for the day, a knock sounded on the door of his solar.

"Come in," Ned said, tying the stack of papers together neatly with a strip of leather.

"My lord, your shipment has arrived." A weighty package of middling size was delivered to his desk, and Ned smiles for the first time in a long while, pushing his worries back into the back corners of his mind.

"Thank you. You may leave."

He opens the package to reveal a block of wood the size of a large mug. Arya's nameday would be in a fortnight, so he needed to get to work on his present before the day. Opening a drawer, he took some carving tools that used to belong to his father. Every Stark child had a wooden toy direwolf made for them near or around their seventh to ninth nameday, and Arya would be no exception to the rule.

His brother, Brandon, had no patience for the art, but Ned had always been interested in the tradition, and would practice carpentry during his spare time. Brandon's direwolf was a dark brown palm wolf, a wolf masterfully carved by their father, Rickard Stark. Ned's own was of a lighter wood; a wolf carved from a block of chestnut. It still sat on the desk in his solar, his faithful companion through boring, paperwork filled nights.

Ned's smile faded as he thought of Lyanna's wooden direwolf, one he'd buried in the crypts next to her bones and her statue. It had been a sandy coloured maple wolf. Brandon's wolf was also buried next to him.

Benjen had taken his' to the wall, but Ned could still remember the ebony direwolf. It was only until Robb, Artos and Jon had turned seven that the number of wooden direwolves had grown again.

Robb's wolf was carved from a very red bloodwood, the leftovers of the block he'd saved for later for Sansa's impending nameday. Artos' wolf was carved from rosewood, a darker red wood.

Ned remembered how hard it had been to decide what kind of wood would work for Jon's wolf; he had decided not to choose the same wood as his mother's. Each type of wood had a specific meaning to it, and Jon acted far more like himself than his mother. In the end, Ned decided on a wood that looked very similar to his own, but had a totally different meaning—cypress.

For Arya, Ned specifically ordered a block of blackthorn wood from the Wolfswood. He stifled a mischievous smile, knowing that if his lady wife ever knew the meaning of the wood, she'd very much disapprove, but Ned thought it would suit his younger daughter; blackthorn was reserved for those with a northern warrior's spirit.

He shook his head to clear it of his thoughts, concentrated, and began carving.


End file.
